It Leads Nowhither
by P.Maugham
Summary: The story of Snape's first year teaching at Hogwarts. Staff and pupils make it clear from the beginning that he is not welcome, and one student in particular wishes him nothing but harm. What would you do, if you were confronted by one of your victims?
1. The Trial Of Igor Karkaroff

_Author's notes: Obviously, the world of Harry Potter is not of my creation, and so all characters in this story that feature in JKR's books are credited to her._

_This story is almost entirely canon-compliant. However, in this story, Snape goes to teach at Hogwarts the September after the Potters are killed, so nearly a year later. This was partly to condense two years into one, and because I wanted Snape's return to Hogwarts to be while the wizarding world, torn apart by the war, is trying rather desperately and unsuccessfully to rebuild itself._

_We know for example that by this time the Ministry was resorting to very authoritarian and questionable methods, and indeed that society was apparently unable to purge itself of the worldviews (i.e. pureblood) that gave rise to Voldermort's ideology. A lot of people supported him, and people, society, are bound to be asking themselves, how could this happen? I thought this would be quite interesting to explore, through the personal story of Emily Saxon and the man who murdered her brother._

_Also, I thought it rather likely that Slughorn would want to hang onto his job at Hogwarts until he knew it was safe to leave. _

* * *

><p><strong>PROLOGUE<br>**

_23rd of April, 1978_

The sun was setting on what had been a bright day in the middle of April. The evening had turned balmy, and in the heat, tensions all over London were running high. There had already been riots on the streets of the capital, as angry youths clashed violently with the police. After over a decade of promising change but delivering none, young Muggles were losing patience with the Establishment, and idealism was turning ugly.

To the older generation, it seemed as though the country was splitting, fracturing along social and ideological lines. Many were afraid, but in the leafy Georgian street where the Saxon family lived, the danger seemed a million miles away from their comfortable, urban lives.

Unlike their Muggle neighbours, however, the Saxons lived in daily fear of their lives.

There was nothing to mark out this particular evening as exceptional, but it was.

On this night, their fear was well placed.

The father, Lord Magnus Saxon of Northorpe was a gentleman of eminent importance. He was one of the most well known politicians in the Ministry of Magic, but also held a position, albeit a practically unknown position, in the Muggle government.

His great, great, grandfather on his father's side had been a Muggle Lord, who'd fallen in love and married a witch from a well respected pureblood family. Since then almost every successive member of their family had been magical, and had straddled the divide between the two worlds, trying to maintain harmony and above all, secrecy.

The Saxons had been calling for greater understanding between Muggles and wizards for as long as anyone could remember, and although their wealth and influence granted them a relatively high status, there remained an element of disdain towards them. It wasn't so much that their bloodline was less than entirely pure, as their refusal to distance themselves from that aspect of their heritage, indeed, to emphasise it, which disturbed people. Despite this, the Saxons maintained that their position, where male heirs immediately had access to the Muggle corridors of power was useful. It allowed for greater opportunity at co-operation, and an improvement in relations between Muggles and wizards.

When a young wizard who called himself Lord Voldermort started gaining supporters on the back of an anti-Muggle agenda, Mr Saxon, who's title, of course, meant little to wizards, was quick to speak out against him. He appeared in public with Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts and most powerful wizard of the age, urging tolerance towards Muggles, and warning of the dangers of Voldermort's ideology.

Unfortunately, the Saxons were people ahead of their time. The Ministry, frightened of losing support to the enigmatic and charismatic Lord Voldermort, did all they could to appease him. By the time they realised their mistake, it was too late. Lord Voldermort and his supporters soon turned their venom towards Muggleborns, and anyone whose blood was less than 'pure'. Their violent words became violent actions, and for over ten years the wizarding world endured a bloody civil war.

Mr Saxon and his wife Evelyn had joined Dumbledore's secret organisation the Order of the Phoenix in the early years. They pledged their allegiance to Dumbledore, to tolerance and to future peace. They fought and struggled along with the others, but it wasn't always easy to stay strong. There were times when the whole thing seemed hopeless, when they worried for the future, for the lives their children would lead.

The Saxons had two children. Their son, Marcus, would soon be entering his final year at Hogwarts. He was tall and wiry, like his father, with dark hair and a somewhat prominent chin. Growing up in the shadow of the war had made him a serious young man. Their daughter, Emily, took after their mother. While her height and build certainly came from her father, her brown hair and dull grey eyes were undoubtedly her mother's. At just thirteen years old, she, like her brother, was a proud member of Ravenclaw House at Hogwarts.

Emily didn't remember a time when the world wasn't a dangerous place, when they didn't have to go through the ritual of enchanting their home against their enemies every time they went outside. Each time she saw her parents during the holidays was a gift, which she knew could be snatched away at any moment. And yet she longed for the freedom and security of Hogwarts. She longed to be able to wander the grounds without having to look over her shoulder at every step.

Despite the relative safety of Hogwarts, student numbers had been dwindling. Many parents chose to keep their children at home, in hiding, while others simply left the country. But there were always some who couldn't return to Hogwarts. The death toll was rising, and Voldermort's Death Eaters felt no mercy towards the children of their enemies.

The war was not discussed in the Saxon family home, at least not in front of the children. Sometimes Marcus and Emily would hear their parents arguing late into the night, while they were meant to be sleeping upstairs. Each argument was the same; Dumbledore's name would be mentioned several times, and it always ended with their mother in tears, being comforted by their father.

"We're going to get through this, together," they heard him say once, when they'd crept to the top of the stairs to listen. "We're doing the right thing."

Emily wondered what he had meant by this, but when she turned to Marcus, she saw that his jaw was set and there was a small crease between his eyebrows.

"Come on," he'd whispered to her, "time for bed."

From then on, Marcus stopped her from listening to their parents' discussions.

On this warm evening, Marcus, Emily and their mother were in the sitting room of their London home, apparently engrossed in their respective activities; reading, studying, nothing particularly unusual for such a family.

But each in turn kept glancing at the grandfather clock that stood at the other end of the room, ticking loudly.

It was getting late. Their father should be back by now. The unspoken dread hung in the air between them.

And then at last, they heard the front door click open, and the sound of someone entering the house. Mrs Saxon jumped up and hurried forward to meet her husband as he appeared in the hallway. He looked tired, but pleased to see them.

"How was the meeting, Father?" Marcus asked immediately.

Mr and Mrs Saxon shared a glance.

"Interesting," Mr Saxon replied, evasively, "Very interesting."

He opened his mouth to continue, but was cut off by Mrs Saxon who hissed for him to be quiet, her eyes wide, listening intently.

For a moment they all listened in silence. Emily tried to ignore the way her heartbeat had started galloping behind her ribs.

"I think I heard something outside," her mother whispered, looking with fear at her husband.

They hesitated only a moment longer before Mr Saxon turned to his son. "Take your sister upstairs," he said in a low voice. He made no effort to hide the urgency in his voice.

Marcus rose immediately, grabbed Emily's hand and left the room, while their parents made their way towards the front of the house. Marcus and Emily had only just reached the bottom of the stairs when there was an almighty crash behind them, followed by several voices shouting incantations.

"Run!" Marcus yelled, pushing his sister ahead of him up the stairs. She did run, as fast as she could, without looking back, only stopping when she was halfway down a narrow and seemingly disused corridor. A few paces from where she stood were two doors on either side of the corridor, that both led into rooms that were only used for storage. The one on the left, however, also held a secret.

As well as old and dusty furniture and boxes, this room held a small vial of bluish-grey liquid; a Potion, that would make the drinker invisible. Time and again they had gone over The Plan should they be attacked. Get the Potion. Drink it and hide. As soon as it's safe to do so, get out of the house and get as far away from there as possible. And most importantly, stick together.

Emily had stopped when she realised she was alone. She looked behind her. The empty corridor stretched ahead.

From downstairs she could still hear shouting and crashes, and then she heard a noise that seemed to pierce her heart; the sound of a woman screaming. Mother. Part of her wanted to run back, but fear kept her rooted to the spot.

The crashes and shouting were getting louder; they were getting closer. She backed a little further down the corridor and into the room, but kept her hand on the handle of the door, unwilling to look away from the corridor. Then, amongst the yells she recognised her brother's voice; he was alive, and fighting back. No sooner had she realised this when she saw him, at the other end of the corridor, running towards her.

She turned into the room, found the Potion vial and, with trembling hands, pulled the stopper. She looked back. Marcus had reached her end of the corridor, but was hiding in the doorway to the other empty room. His wand was still drawn and he was breathing heavily. From where she stood, he didn't seem to be hurt, but why had he stopped there, so close to the safety of the Invisibility Potion?

He turned his head, looked at her, and the flicker of a smile crossed his face as he saw that she had the Potion. Then she realised. Its success rested on the assumption that intruders wouldn't be looking for invisible, hidden, children. It bought them time, until help arrived, or until they could escape. If he were to seemingly disappear into a room at the end of this corridor, the Death Eaters would keep looking for him, and would soon discover them both. They'd already seen him, they knew he was here, but she still had a chance.

The horror of this realisation hit her hard, and she shook her head, tears stinging her eyes, willing it not to be true. Marcus was still looking at her, any sign of a smile now gone. He nodded, and gestured for her to drink the Potion.

The creak of the floorboards somewhere nearby jolted her into action. She took a big gulp of the Potion and backed silently into a gap between the chest of drawers and an enormous dresser. From here she could crouch down low, be out of the way should a Death Eater choose to take a walk around the room, but still see what was going on.

She tried desperately to regulate and slow her breathing. She, hidden, and Marcus, not, waited. And then she watched as her brother duelled with an enemy she couldn't see. He was still standing in the doorway, hiding as spells were fired at him, then firing back, shouting incantations she'd never heard of.

For a moment she hoped he might be victorious, but then there was a flash of green light, and he fell, heavily, to the floor. She gasped, and clapped a hand over her mouth. His eyes were still open, glazed and glassy. An eternity seemed to pass, in which she and her brother were the only people in existence.

Then a shadow fell across his body. In fear she crouched even lower, praying her breathing could not be heard. A figure appeared, cloaked in black, the glint of a mask just visible beneath its hood. The Death Eater's wand was still drawn. It stood beside Marcus' body, looking down at it for what felt like a long time; long enough for Emily to wonder what it was doing.

And then quick as a flash, it pulled its mask away and vomited on the floor. Emily recoiled, but didn't take her eyes away from the figure, which had fallen to its knees and was now crouching on all fours, its head hanging forwards. She waited and watched.

Slowly, the figure raised its head, and for a moment looked straight at her. She barely had time to register the dark, greasy hair, the large, hooked nose, and the cold, piercing eyes, before she shut her eyes and started reciting the dates of the Goblin Rebellions of the 17th century, anything, to steady her racing heart. 

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1 - The Trial of Igor Karkaroff<strong>

_Summer 1982_

It was a warm August morning in the wizarding village of Gilfirth's Gowt, and a cool breeze provided momentary relief on what would otherwise have been a stiflingly hot day. There was little movement in the streets at this hour. Those who had to begin their day early would soon be leaving, flooing and apparating to London, the centre of the wizarding community.

From a window seat in the breakfast room, Emily Saxon watched the birds outside swooping and diving across the sky, as she drank her morning coffee.

"You're up early this morning."

Emily didn't turn to respond to the non-question, engrossed as she was in watching a swallow flying after another, matching its every swerve and dive. They reminded her of the Quidditch games played at Hogwarts, which in the last few years of the war had become a sorry reminder of what Hogwarts should be like; lively, jovial and full of children. The melancholy memory seemed to surround her, and she just murmured absent-mindedly, "Of course."

"Of course," came the reply.

"You didn't think I'd sleep in today, did you?" she asked, finally turning and looking at her uncle, who was sitting at the dining table, reading the newspaper. He didn't respond immediately, but Emily could see he had pursed his lips in what looked like disapproval.

"So long as you know that I can't guarantee I can get you in to the trial," he said, glancing up and giving her a serious look. "They don't just let anyone in. It isn't a spectator sport."

She raised one eyebrow, curled her lip and murmured darkly, "I was aware of that."

Before her uncle could comment on her tone, his wife walked in, greeted them both, and lowered herself into the seat next to her husband.

"Where's Barty? Is he not up yet?" she asked.

The question was directed at Emily, who shrugged and joined them up to table. Because of their closeness in age, it was sometimes assumed that Emily knew better than anyone where her cousin was, or what he was doing. But nothing could be further from the truth. She had lived with the Crouches, her only living relatives, for four years, and with each year that passed her and Barty drifted further and further apart.

This didn't bother her in the slightest. As children, Barty would only agree to play with her when no one else was around, and certainly not when they were joined by Emily's older brother Marcus, or one of his friends from Hogwarts. It was always Barty who most wanted to exclude Emily from their games, who began the teasing, and it was always he who took it too far. Nearly a year older than Emily, but a few years younger than Marcus, Barty used this as a way of ingratiating himself with his older cousin, to mixed success.

It took him a while to grow out of this childish cruelty, but as he neared puberty, Barty was struck down with an inexplicable illness. He'd always been a sickly child, but the sudden and severe deterioration of his health meant he was forced to wait an extra year before attending Hogwarts. Being a year older than everyone else in his year was never easy for Barty, and as the years went by, he began more and more to withdraw into himself. Sorted into Ravenclaw, he kept his head down and dedicated himself to his studies. He still had friends, though Emily could not recall their names, nor, quite frankly, did she take much interest.

The truth was that there were far more serious events taking place in Emily's life, and in the wider wizarding community, that consumed her energies entirely. For as long as she could remember, the wizarding world had been at war. He Who Must Not Be Named and his Death Eaters spread fear, destruction and despair wherever they went. They murdered and maimed anyone who stood in their way.

That included Emily's family. She'd been only thirteen That Night, when a group of masked Death Eaters tore down the ward charms around her family's house, and murdered her parents and her brother. She was the only one to survive, to be found later, hiding in her bedroom, shaking with fear. It was left to her aunt and uncle to help her through the crying, the nightmares, and the terror. They coaxed her into returning to Hogwarts, where she found solace in the company of books. Much like her cousin, she had devoted herself to her education.

The war that had ravaged the country and brought the wizarding society to its knees had finally ended on Halloween night the previous year. It had been sudden, and it had taken a while for the truth of what had actually happened that night to spread.

Emily remembered walking into the Great Hall at breakfast the next morning to find that nobody was eating, or even sitting down. What few students that still remained at Hogwarts were rushing around, as were the teachers. Everyone was talking loudly and hugging each other. Some were even in tears.

For days afterwards, little studying took place at Hogwarts. During war time it had been difficult carrying on with school life as if everything was normal, as every year fewer and fewer students returned to study at the school. But now that it was all so suddenly over, the sheer relief made everyone so unwilling to work that the teachers eventually gave up and gave everyone a holiday.

Emily certainly needed that holiday. The war had dominated her life. Although the nightmares were rare these days, she had lived with her eyes fixed firmly on the day when she could leave Hogwarts and join the Order of the Phoenix. She was more than just willing to fight, she longed for it. She longed for a chance to find her family's killers, to avenge them, to show the world she wasn't scared anymore.

But just like that, it was all over.

It wasn't that she was unhappy that the war was over. She, too, felt keenly the relief that at last they could live in peace and safety. It was, after all, what she had always wanted.

And there was still work to be done. Many of You Know Who's followers were still around, and some fought on, unwilling to believe that their master could have been killed by an unarmed infant.

Many surrendered, however. Perhaps they could tell that without You Know Who, they didn't really stand a chance. Or perhaps, as they often claimed, they had been forced or hoodwinked into supporting him. Like her uncle, Emily didn't believe a word of it, but even Bartemius Crouch Snr couldn't persuade the Wizengamot to convict the likes of Lucius Malfoy or Aelred Avery.

Nevertheless, Emily took a keen interest in the pursuit and trial of the remaining Death Eaters, and listened to every morsel of detail her uncle provided as though it were pure gold. It was clear that Uncle Barty rather enjoyed the obvious admiration of his niece, especially since his own son seemed so apathetic and disinterested.

So when the chance came to get a pass for Emily to attend the next trial, he took it. It was in this arena, as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, that he was able to truly display his authority within the Ministry.

It was widely expected that he would be the next Minister for Magic, a role for which he was extremely busy preparing himself. It seemed only fair that he should be rewarded for his services to the Ministry. Under his leadership, the Wizengamot had sent more people to Azkaban than in equivalent years under anyone else. The likes of Albus Dumbledore and Alastor Moody sometimes raised concern over his authoritarian methods, but it was on this very platform that he had seen his popularity and appeal grow. The public wanted and needed a strong, decisive leader, whose morality and integrity was beyond question.

Emily found his approach very appealing. On numerous occasions she had accompanied her Aunt and Uncle to important events, and willingly allowed herself to be used as part of his political campaign. Her role was especially important on such occasions, as her cousin was often notable by his absence.

The name of Igor Karkaroff was already familiar to Emily, who knew that he had already been convicted of Death Eater activity some months ago. On this day he was to be brought to trial again, as it seemed a short spell in Azkaban had miraculously refreshed his memory, and he wished to provide new information, no doubt in an attempt to win his freedom. Emily, again in agreement with her uncle, thought that the whole thing was sickening, and would much prefer that they take whatever information he had and throw him back into prison. As far as she was concerned, being a Death Eater was unforgivable. After all, she had seen at first hand the horrors such people inflicted.

"Ready to go in five minutes?" Uncle Barty asked his niece.

"Absolutely," she said, hurrying to get her shoes on and fetch her wand.

On her way to her bedroom, her cousin emerged from his own room, bleary eyed and still in his nightclothes. He grunted in reply to her morning greeting and disappeared into the bathroom. It baffled her that he could be so disinterested in the world around them. It wasn't as if he was stupid, in fact he had excelled at his OWLs, doing far better than she had, and was due to get top grades in his NEWTs this summer. Not waiting to ponder the mystery that was her dear cousin, she hurried back downstairs, and followed her uncle through the fireplace to the Ministry of Magic.

* * *

><p>Emily sat in the press box during the trial, amongst half a dozen journalists who each had their quills poised over some parchment. As they waited for Karkaroff to arrive, the journalists whispered amongst themselves. Some of them glanced at her, nodding in recognition. Rita Skeeter gave her a wink.<p>

Although she had become accustomed by now to journalists, as they, like everyone else, would often clamour for the attention of her uncle, she was nevertheless a little wary of them. They had no loyalty to her uncle's future career, or the work he was doing for the Ministry, and would just as happily destroy him with some damaging information if they could get their hands on it.

Uncle Barty had advised her against speaking to them if she could, rather than risk saying something that could be twisted and used against him. It was the same policy used by his wife, who had been seen at his side for far more years than his niece had been, and was very adept at playing her role as the supportive wife of this important Ministry official.

This role extended beyond the public gaze. In the privacy of their home, she left much of the discussion of politics to her husband and niece. This traditional view of her role rather disappointed Emily, and as she had grown in maturity and confidence, she sometimes wondered to what extent her Aunt really agreed with her husband.

It sometimes struck Emily as surprising that Aunt Celia really was her mother's sister, so different were they in temperament. Emily's memories of her mother were of a woman who was often smiling, who was warm and affectionate, whereas Aunt Celia was, like her husband, serious and formal.

Perhaps it explained the choices each woman had made in their lives. Where Aunt Celia had married respectable, ambitious, pureblood Bartemius Crouch, her sister had chosen to marry a man who liked to laugh, who was an idealist, who, although far from poor, got his money from the wealthy Muggle side of his family.

Emily took a moment to scan her eyes over the Wizengamot at the other side of the room. Uncle Barty was easily spotted in the front row, right in the middle, where he sat talking to the man on his left. A few seats along from him in the other direction sat Albus Dumbledore, Emily's headmaster and a man she couldn't help but admire. Her parents had always spoken highly of Dumbledore, even before Marcus and Emily had met him at Hogwarts.

Dumbledore had always supported her father's long-running attempts to improve and champion the rights of Muggleborns, and to improve relations between wizards and Muggles, continuing the work of his father and grandfather before him. It was difficult to imagine anyone who was more ideologically opposed to You Know Who and his followers, but her parents had paid a heavy price for their outspoken opposition.

The night her family was killed had been the catalyst for a significant change in the way Emily thought of her Headmaster. As the years went by, her idolisation of Dumbledore faded and she saw him more as the man that he was. Certainly he was extraordinary, and she still trusted him, but sometimes felt as though it was against her better judgement to do so. Perhaps it was the effect of living with the Crouches, seeing things from the perspective of her uncle, who had to deal with Dumbledore's conscientious objections on a daily basis.

After all, if Dumbledore had had his way, there was no question that the Ministry wouldn't have made the gains against the Death Eaters that they had. Azkaban, and indeed the morgue, would be emptier of killers, and the latter even fuller no doubt of innocent victims. Idealism was all very well, Emily thought, but when you're dealing with deranged mass-murderers, that kind of luxury can cost lives.

Behind Dumbledore sat Alastor Moody, a more open critic of Uncle Barty, who Emily had met only a few times. If truth be told, Moody unnerved Emily somewhat. He was loud and unpredictable. It was a shame, she thought, that he was Head of the Auror Department at the Ministry, and so the man she would have to impress if she wished to fulfil her ambition of becoming an Auror.

At last, the doors opened and Igor Karkaroff was dragged into the room by two Dementors. He looked ill, but she supposed that was the effects of living in Azkaban. This was the closest she had ever been to a Dementor, and the cold, clammy feeling that reached her even from this distance was enough to know that Azkaban was somewhere she would never care to be.

The chair upon which Karkaroff sat chained him down, and he trembled and sweated under the gaze of the Wizengamot and the press. Uncle Barty's tone was cold and full of contempt as he questioned the Death Eater, and Emily felt a glow of pride as she listened and watched intently.

The information Karkaroff provided wasn't entirely new. Many of the names he gave that morning were already known to the Ministry, and to Emily. There were, however, two new ones. Rookwood, of whom Emily had never heard, was given, and Uncle Barty made a note of the name, and Severus Snape.

This name was also entirely new to Emily, but what surprised her was Dumbledore's reaction. He stood up immediately and addressed the whole room, assuring them that he had already vouched for Snape. When Karkaroff protested, insisting that Snape was a Death Eater, Dumbledore did not deny that Snape had been a Death Eater, but said that he had become a spy for the Order of Phoenix before the end of the war.

This intrigued her. Uncle Barty had never mentioned the name Snape, or in fact a spy, and she wondered suddenly how much he knew of this himself. It also occurred to Emily how convenient it was for Snape that he had Dumbledore, powerful and infallible, to vouch for his character and keep him out of Azkaban.

That was all Karkaroff could provide, and soon the trial was over. The Dementors returned for their prisoner, who did not leave quietly, but was drowned out once the door through which he was taken had been shut. People immediately started talking amongst themselves, and filing out of the room. It was clear that she wasn't the only one who found the information about Snape very interesting indeed.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: Oh, and I've sort of changed it so that Barty's still at school when the war ends. He's still 19 when convicted of being a Death Eater, but he's also still a student.<em>


	2. Dumbledore's Offer

**Chapter 2 - Dumbledore's Offer**

Albus Dumbledore stood at the foot of a large, grey block of flats, and looked up. It was grim, he thought, noticing the way the main door into the building swung off its hinges, and graffiti covered most of the walls within reach of the ground outside. He paused just for a moment, appearing to listen, the hand in his pocket lightly touching his wand, before venturing into the building. What traces there were of magic in and around the building were extremely old; this was as Muggle a building as you were likely to find in a British city. And a suitable, if rather surprising place for a wizard to lie low.

He met no one on the way up to the seventeenth floor, though from the voices and music he could hear through the walls into the flats all around him, the place was far from deserted. To his disappointment, the electrical lift seemed to be broken, and Dumbledore had to resist the urge to use magic to reach his destination. It was a shame, as seventeen flights of stairs is no joke for a man his age, and by the time he reached the door he was looking for, he was out of breath. Nevertheless, he felt sure a cup of tea and a sit down awaited him on the other side of the door, which he now knocked.

After a minute, the door was opened, but only slightly, and a man shrouded in shadow looked out.

"It's only me," Dumbledore panted.

The man opened the door and let Dumbledore in. It soon dawned on him that perhaps he'd been optimistic in his hopes for a chance to rest here. The flat into which he had entered was bare except for an old stained coffee table and some torn curtains, which blocked out most of the light in the room. There was a pile of what looked like robes in one corner, and in another a pile of old newspapers and bits of cardboard. There was no light bulb in the socket above.

Dumbledore didn't say anything, and tried not to look too shocked at the state of the place.

"It's not much," the man croaked, "but it's cheap."

"And out of the way," Dumbledore added, looking again at the man before him. His eyes took in the dark, greasy hair which looked like it hadn't been combed in a while, the thin, sallow face and the shabby robes. Clearly uncomfortable with Dumbledore's gaze, the man broke eye contact and moved towards what was the door to the kitchen.

"I'd offer you a cup of tea, but the tea bags are pretty old. The previous tenant must have left them. You'll have to drink them at your own risk."

Dumbledore smiled and his eyes twinkled. "That's alright," he said, "a glass of water will do. Those stairs- I don't know how you manage them Severus."

Severus Snape, for that was his name, smirked, and went to fetch a drink for his visitor. Meanwhile, Dumbledore spotted the newspaper that was on the coffee table, which was only a few days old. On the front page there was a moving picture of Igor Karkaroff, flanked by Dementors. The headline simply read: "KARKAROFF TALKS"

Dumbledore didn't need to read on, he'd already seen the story, already been to the offices of the Daily Prophet, already argued with its Editor. He turned when Snape came back into the room, and took the glass of water from the younger man. Their eyes met, and Dumbledore said quickly, "There won't be any more stories. I've already spoken to them."

Snape looked back down at the newspaper and said nothing. They stood for a moment in silence. Then suddenly, Dumbledore sat down on the floor and crossed his legs, as though this were a perfectly normal situation. Clearly the stairs really had taken it out of him. Snape hesitated a moment, then sat down as well.

"So," Dumbledore said eventually, "how have you been?" There was genuine concern in the man's voice, but this did not encourage Snape to talk, as he had hoped.

"Alright."

"Found work?"

"No."

There was silence again. "I've been living off my savings," Snape said.

"Your father-" Dumbledore began hopefully.

"Not a chance," Snape snorted, "I haven't seen or heard from him since I was seventeen, and he made it very clear then that I shouldn't bother coming back."

Dumbledore's tone suddenly changed; perhaps he was impatient. "What do you intend to do then?"

Snape looked up, surprised at the question. "What am I meant to do?" he asked, his face clearly betraying the anger he felt.

Dumbledore didn't answer immediately, but sighed and caught sight of a kite being flown outside The red speck swooped and dived, and if he listened hard, he could hear the shouts of delight from the children below.

"Horace has decided to retire at last," he said, looking back at Snape, "He's been threatening to do so for years, but I suppose the war has taken its toll on him, and he feels it is time to move on."

That wasn't the real reason, of course. Horace Slughorn had remained at Hogwarts long after he'd wanted to retire for the simple reason that it was safer there than outside. It was clear to most people who knew Horace that if he was to leave Dumbledore's employ, it wouldn't be long before Voldermort paid him a visit. Now that the danger had passed, he could finally enjoy his retirement in peace and luxury.

Dumbledore went on, "Which means, I am in need of a new Potions Professor. And I want you to be that person."

Snape gave a short laugh, "You are joking. You want me to teach? At Hogwarts? Why?"

"Because I need a potions teacher," was Dumbledore's simple reply, "and you need a job. And somewhere else to live." He glanced round when he said this, before continuing. "Besides, it will allow you to fulfil your side of our agreement."

And there it was. Snape had wondered when Dumbledore would bring that up again, how long it would take him before he extracted from Snape what was due. Snape had promised Dumbledore he would do anything to keep Lily Potter safe. After the death of the Potters, he had extended this to the protection of their son, Harry. But Harry was just a baby, and, from what Snape knew of the situation, safely in the care of Petunia Dursley and her family. He would remain there until he turned eleven and would take his place at Hogwarts. But that was years away, surely Dumbledore didn't need Snape to go to Hogwarts now.

"This way you'll be well established by the time Harry arrives," Dumbledore said, as if he could guess what Snape was thinking. "There's really no reason to wait any time at all."

"Except I'm not qualified, or suited, to teach," Snape pointed out angrily, "And I can't imagine the governors will be happy, or the parents for that matter, now that they all know." He gestured to the offending newspaper.

Dumbledore looked like he was trying not to grin; his moustache twitched and his eyes glistened. "Oh, you don't need to worry about them," he said softly, tidying the folds of his robes.

When Snape didn't respond, Dumbledore looked up and said quite calmly, "You don't honestly think I could be persuaded, or intimidated, into letting you go, do you?"

He was, of course, quite right. With the Dark Lord gone, nobody could be in any doubt who the most powerful wizard in Britain was. Nevertheless, the arrogance with which Dumbledore assumed his authority irked Snape somewhat; it was the Dumbledore he remembered from his schooldays, the one who inspired in Snape a resentment that made it easier to join the Dark Lord.

Worried that this train of thought was visible to Dumbledore, Snape dropped his eyes. He still couldn't be sure just how much of Snape's inner thoughts Dumbledore had access to. In the moments after Snape had found out about Lily's death, he had been in such a state that he undoubtedly allowed Dumbledore to see the side of him that he hadn't allowed anyone else to see, and this unnerved him.

It had certainly made it easier for Dumbledore to trust Snape, but how long this would last, Snape couldn't be sure. And he felt vulnerable, knowing that Dumbledore knew such things about him, but unable to fully trust the old Professor. True, Dumbledore had so far kept him out of Azkaban, but he wouldn't put it past him to use Snape's weakness to manipulate him, and use him.

"So you're not going to run off and become Minister for Magic then?" Snape asked, changing the subject.

"Merlin, no," Dumbledore's reply was firm. "I'll leave that to Barty."

* * *

><p>Ever since That Night, Emily Saxon had been a collector. An entire shelf in her bedroom was set aside for notebooks and journals, each full of information she had acquired about You Know Who, his Death Eaters and their reported victims. She knew their names, their histories, what they looked like, and who they knew.<p>

It had started as a way of purging her mind of the memories of That Dreadful Night. Once written down it could be set aside. But instead, over the years it became something of an obsession. She kept newspaper articles, copied family trees, created timelines and, most importantly of all, kept it all up to date.

In the months after the war had ended, she'd filled several journals with details of the trials. Death Eaters that had previously only been hinted at were given names and pictures. Slowly, the pieces of the puzzle were falling into place.

These days, she rarely looked at the journal she'd started with. She didn't really need to. She knew well enough that the first few pages were taken up with drawings, vague images of what, of who she had seen That Night. None of them grasped the likeness of her brother's killer, and so alongside them she jotted down words that would describe the figure, and some that she'd added, not fully knowing why.

Long hair, dark. Tall. Almost certainly male. Possibly dark eyes - probably not green. Unpleasant face. Angry. Didn't laugh. Shadows and darkness… Spidery…

None of the newspaper cuttings in her journals so far were a match.

The day following Karkaroff's trial was spent in deep thought. She sat at the edge of the pond in the garden, sucking absent-mindedly on a sugar quill and dangling her bare feet in the water. Occasionally, something smooth would brush against her ankle, but she paid little heed to the fish now. She'd already added the details of the latest trial to her journal, and was left to ponder the questions it had raised.

Rookwood. The Ministry official. Snape. The Spy.

She sighed. She was getting nowhere. Abandoning this pointless exercise, she turned her attention to the letter her uncle had given her that morning. It had arrived several weeks ago, but he had 'forgotten' because he was 'busy'. She supposed she shouldn't resent him for that, but she was a little hurt when he told her quite firmly that he expected her to 'deal with it herself'.

The letter was from her parents' solicitor, Mr Bartlett, requesting her presence in his London offices on the 1st of September at 3pm. She would be turning eighteen that day, and so would be due to inherit her parents' 'estates, titles, and all articles therein'.

Mr Bartlett explained that he was a squib by birth, and after completing a Muggle education - a feat in itself, she thought - he had set up a legal practice dealing mainly with Muggles, but also with those rare individuals who bridged the divide between the worlds, such as her father.

Emily had of course known that Muggles became of age when they turned eighteen, but had thought little of her inheritance in the years since her parents' deaths. What did any of it matter, really?

She supposed there might be small treasures that would have some sentimental value, and she wasn't too proud to admit that her parents' gold would be useful, but she couldn't get excited about it.

In fact, she was rather apprehensive about the whole thing. Missing the Hogwarts Express wasn't a problem - she could apparate to the school in the evening, nor did she mind waiting a little longer before seeing her friends and classmates.

No, it was the thought that she might have to take possession of the house she'd been raised in, that turned her stomach. She found herself hoping desperately that it had already been sold. This final thought made her feel terribly guilty, and so to compensate, she'd quickly sent an owl back to Mr Bartlett assuring him that she would see him on the first day of September.

* * *

><p>After Karkaroff's trial, Emily was disappointed to discover that she wouldn't be permitted to attend any more Death Eater trials. Instead, she had to go back to getting her information from the press and whatever Uncle Barty chose to let her know, which was frustratingly little.<p>

The quality of the reporting of the press was sporadic. It was clear to Emily that their independence could not be relied upon. For example, apart from the day after Karkaroff's trial, there had been no more mention, let alone investigation, of Severus Snape, Dumbledore's spy. When she remarked upon this to her uncle, he confirmed, in a round about way, that sometimes the Prophet was leaned upon by the Ministry.

Uncle Barty held no affection for the press, and justified the Ministry's influence quite comfortably by saying it was always in the 'National Interest'. The press were meddlesome, amoral, cared only for a story, while he was out there, putting away criminals, and making Britain a safer place.

Howard Beardshaw, a former reporter at the Daily Prophet, had written a lengthy diatribe of the Ministry's tactics in dealing with Death Eaters after the war. He had warned of a Ministry that had little regard for the law, or for justice, that desired only more power to lock away its citizens and prop up its own demagogue of a leader, Bartemius Crouch Senior.

Although Uncle Barty had been enraged by this attack, he hadn't needed to defend himself, as the response from the public had been almost unanimously against the reporter. Letters and curses had flooded into the Prophet head office, accusing Beardshaw of being unpatriotic and a friend of You Know Who. Not only had the Editor of the Prophet been forced to sack his reporter, but Beardshaw had subsequently fled to France, where he apparently lived and worked with a group of wizarding anarchists, who wrote and printed leaflets nobody ever read.

Hearing Uncle Barty's authoritarian views on the press made Emily a little uncomfortable. She'd long harboured doubts about his justifications for the heavy hand of the Ministry, but wasn't confident enough of these doubts to voice them out loud. Having an independent and critical press would be nice, she thought, but if it hindered the government's efforts to defeat You Know Who and his Death Eaters…

In the end it came down to whether or not one trusted Barty Crouch and the Ministry, to act proportionally and to do what was right.

As his niece, how could she not trust him? He had promised her, only a few weeks after she had come to live with them, that he would do everything he could to bring those who had killed her family to justice. They had been at war then, You Know Who was increasing in strength and supporters, and they lived every day in danger for their lives.

Over the years, he had repeated this promise to her; every time she woke in the night screaming with terror, he had been there, cradling her as she cried, whispering he would protect her, that together they would defeat their enemies. He provided the stability in her life that she needed after the loss of her family, and the inspiration and determination to keep going.

It was he who encouraged her to study hard, to always be prepared. She applied herself vigorously to her studies; it made her feel less powerless, better able to defend herself should she be attacked again. It was hardly surprising, therefore, that Defence Against the Dark Arts became her favourite subject. Obtaining teachers for this post was hard enough during peace time, but during the last few years of the war, it became impossible.

Eventually, students had taken it upon themselves to learn from books alone, while the other teachers took it in turns to supervise the practical sides of the subject. A Duelling Club was set up, and older students taught the younger ones how to defend themselves.

A group of older students soon emerged whose skills went beyond the simple Disarming spell, who could handle themselves in a duel as well as many adults. Mostly consisting of prefects, and entirely devoid of Slytherins, these students patrolled the school, keeping a close eye on any sign of intrusion. They assisted the teachers in their magical defence of the school and its grounds, and discussed the practical issues of what to do should the defences of Hogwarts be breached.

Emily's rapidly improving skills at duelling earned her a place in this elite group of students even before she became a prefect. By the time she was in her sixth year, she was widely considered to be one of their most valued and experienced members.

After the war had ended, they had relaxed somewhat, and now met less frequently. But the danger had not passed entirely, and, for Emily at least, vigilance was still needed.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: Yes, Snape did, while the war was still going on, apply to teach at Hogwarts, when Voldermort instructed him to. But I decided firstly that Snape would not consider himself suited to teaching. He's very young, only a few years out of school himself, and he isn't exactly a 'people person'.<em>

_Also, I decided that Dumbledore would refuse him the position then, after all he may not have been sure at that point that Snape was really trustworthy. But mainly it was because I wanted to set the story after the war was over._


	3. A Storm Gathers

**Chapter 3 - A Storm Gathers**

"Snape. I'm sure I've heard that name before."

"I've definitely heard of Rookwood. I think my mum knew him once."

It was raining heavily, and Emily Saxon had taken refuge in the newly opened Florean Fortesque's Ice Cream Parlour in Diagon Alley with her two friends, Helena McKay and Ferdinand Ravenhill.

The three of them were in the same year and house at Hogwarts. Helena and Emily had been friends since they'd met on the Hogwarts Express in their first year. Where Emily was serious, Helena made a joke of everything. Sarcasm, in particular, was her favourite past-time, so much so that many of their fellow students could never tell when she was joking, and would eventually give up trying to figure her out, choosing to ignore her instead. She delighted in saying the unsay-able, in shocking her audience, and amusing her friends.

That was all very well, but Emily didn't envy anyone on the receiving end of Helena's barbed tongue. As a rule, she never minced her words, not even to protect someone's feelings. It had lost her many a friend over the years.

Ferdinand, meanwhile, was kind and softly spoken. He and Emily had known each other long before Hogwarts. Their parents had been friends, and up until the age of eleven, Ferdinand and his two older sisters had shared a tutor with the Saxon children. Emily had been delighted when Ferdinand had been made prefect along with her, although she was careful not to allow her aunt and uncle to see, surprised and disappointed as they were that their own son had been passed over.

Emily had seen little of her friends over the summer, but the three of them had arranged to buy their new school supplies together in the final week of the holidays. True to form, the sun had promptly disappeared, and their afternoon was interrupted by a torrential downpour.

After hearing all about Ferdinand's family holiday in India, and the things that Helena had learnt - it appeared she'd spent the entire holidays in a bookshop from all the books she'd read - Emily eventually told them about Karkaroff's trial.

For a while afterwards none of them spoke. Ferdinand stared into his teacup, frowning, while Emily watched the other patrons. Eventually, Helena spoke up.

"I don't know about you, but I think it's rather crowded in here with this elephant. Can we please deal with it?"

"What on earth are you talking about?" Ferdinand asked, looking bewildered.

Emily remembered how little knowledge he had of the Muggle world, but she wasn't in the mood to explain. It felt as though a stone had settled in her stomach at Helena's words. She knew exactly what 'the elephant' was.

Helena sighed. "Should I be buying you both 'Congratulations on being made Head Boy-slash-Head Girl' cards?"

Ferdinand looked surprised, then sheepish, then a grin spread over his face.

"Well, I didn't want to say first-" he said quietly, now watching Emily. Helena turned to look at her as well.

Without a word, Emily pulled her Hogwarts letter, still in its envelope, from her pocket and laid it on the table between them. Then she shook her head.

"You're joking. You are," Ferdinand insisted, as Helena read the letter for herself.

"Well that's that then," she said, "Dumbledore's finally lost his marbles."

Their commiserations were, on reflection, more comforting than she'd expected them to be. Her disappointment at not being made Head Girl had been bitter, but what bothered her more was how surprised she'd been at Dumbledore's decision. Hadn't she proven herself worthy of the position? She was surely a more able witch than either the Hufflepuff or Gryffindor prefects, and Slytherin- well, no one in their right mind would make a Slytherin Head Girl.

Just remembering her initial reaction to the news made her face burn with shame and embarrassment, but she still couldn't rid herself completely of the feeling that she'd been denied something that was rightfully hers.

Meanwhile, Ferdinand, who _had_ been made Head Boy, looked embarrassed until Helena punched him on the arm for being so 'bloody stupid' to think Emily couldn't be happy for him just because she hadn't been chosen.

"No, no, no," she said, "It'll be Greenlaw she'll hate. For All Eternity."

Emily laughed despite herself. Olwen Greenlaw was the Gryffindor prefect, and secretly something of a rival. Although Olwen was nice enough, and her and Emily got along perfectly well, she still had something that Emily could never master. She had an ease with people, she seemed to get along so well with everyone, and was very popular. She was also, Emily thought, prettier than her.

It wasn't as though Emily took much interest in how she looked - not compared to some girls she knew - but there were inevitably things about her appearance she didn't like. But that was probably normal, she thought. Even Helena complained about how she looked, and she'd probably have a string of boys after her if she didn't go out of her way to put them all off.

That was why Olwen would probably get the badge, Emily had already decided. Not because of her looks! But because people liked her. And a Head Girl needed to be liked, needed the respect of the student body, to command any kind of authority. Otherwise, what was the point?

Yes, they all agreed Olwen was a shoe-in for the badge.

"Trust Dumbledore to pick a Gryffindor," Helena remarked slyly. "Have you noticed the way his eyes go all misty whenever Gryffindor win the House or Quidditch Cup?"

"Ever the cynic," Ferdinand muttered.

"Ever the innocent," she replied, patting his cheek fondly as though he were five. "Never mind, Em," she added, turning unusually serious, "This way you can spend more time with me in the library. It is the Year Of The Dreaded NEWTs after all."

The rest of the afternoon was spent very pleasantly in the confines of the little café. It soon became apparent that there was a storm gathering outside, and they were 'forced' to abandon their shopping plans and stay indoors. The café began to fill with underage wizards who, of course, could not conjure effective methods of staying dry in the rain, and had to resort to coats and umbrellas.

They briefly saw Emily's cousin Barty passing by, his collar upturned and his shoulders hunched against the rain. She thought it odd that he didn't use magic to protect himself from the rain, but when Helena stood up and called his name, and Barty just carried on by, she supposed he was too pre-occupied to notice them or the rain. It wasn't unlike him, after all. She'd probably seen as little of him during the summer as she'd seen of her friends, so often was he either shut up in his room or out of the house.

They also saw Charles Cato, a fellow student in their year, who joined them at their table. Charles was in Hufflepuff, and had partnered Ferdinand in Potions for several years. They were all rather fond of Charles, who every time they met tried to engage Emily and Ferdinand in a political discussion. Charles' father was an influential figure in the Ministry, and a trusted ally of her Uncle Barty.

He had tried to engage Helena in a discussion as well... once. But Helena's spiky personality put him on edge, and he soon came to quietly resent her random interruptions, especially when they changed the direction of the conversation onto more trivial grounds.

She did just that today.

Charles was about to make what he thought was a very good point about the nature of legitimate authority when Helena gasped and demanded they guess who was coming back to Hogwarts that year.

"Do you remember Mary Thetford, that Gryffindor girl that left after first year?" she asked.

"Didn't her family emigrate?"

"That's right, to Australia. Well, she's coming back to do her final year at Hogwarts."

Emily struggled to remember the girl's face. The name vaguely rang a bell, but she could remember nothing more. It was likely, she supposed, that the intake at Hogwarts would steadily increase, eventually reaching the sorts of numbers that hadn't been seen in all the time she'd been there. She wondered idly how many others would return this year. 

* * *

><p>Emily glanced at the clock for the eleventh time in the past hour, but the minute hand didn't seem to have moved at all. She sighed quietly, glancing around.<p>

As much as she didn't mind attending Ministry functions with her aunt and uncle - it was the least she could do since they'd taken her in - she couldn't say she really enjoyed them. Far too often she was forced to bite her tongue and smile, whenever she wanted to challenge someone's remarks.

What annoyed her particularly were the throwaway remarks that displayed pureblood prejudice towards Muggleborns and Muggles. Often they were so subtle, or said with such authority that nobody challenged them, even when Muggleborns were present. There was once a time when she'd found such attitudes shocking, but after living with the Crouches, who were as guilty of this hypocrisy as many other pureblood families, she'd grown accustomed to it. These days she just sighed and let it go.

Nevertheless, the irony of the current situation did not escape her. Here they were, congratulating themselves for the defeat of a dark wizard whose ideology everyone now agreed was abhorrent, while continuing to hold the sorts of political opinions from which that ideology stemmed. But what did continue to amaze her was that they were completely oblivious to their hypocrisy.

Besides that, she did rather like listening to the conversations of some of the most influential political figures of the age, from discussions about philosophical ideas, to Ministry gossip. It continued to fascinate her how and why an individual's political fortunes fluctuated, and how the astute politician used the various tools at his disposal to secure a following.

It wasn't as simple as just being good at your job, she was beginning to realise. Uncle Barty didn't go to these functions in order to improve his performance as Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. But if he hoped to win the next election as Minister for Magic, these functions were crucial. Indeed, every opportunity to win support had to be grasped, despite the fact that at present it looked like he'd be standing unopposed.

Tonight, however, Emily was too distracted to pay much attention to what people were talking about. She caught sight of her aunt listening to a conversation between two women at the other end of the room. She looked paler than usual, and Emily noticed how slowly she was blinking.

Aunt Celia had been ill one and off for several weeks now. Uncle Barty had called in a favour from a young Healer who's family he'd helped out a few years ago, but the young man had been unable to find any magical cause to her malady.

"It may just be stress and exhaustion," he'd said, "It's not uncommon after such a long war, especially when family members are so heavily involved."

Uncle Barty hadn't liked the implication that it was somehow his fault that his wife was ill, but he accepted that perhaps she needed time to rest and relax. To everyone's relief, Aunt Celia had started to look and feel a bit better last week, and indeed had insisted attending tonight, overriding Emily's pleas that she be careful.

As a result, the three of them had gone - her cousin was out elsewhere that night - but Emily spent the entire time keeping an eye on her aunt for signs that she had had enough.

The slow blinking was the final straw. She weaved her way through the chattering crowd to where her uncle was deep in conversation with a witch and two wizards, one young and one older. The older wizard she immediately recognised as her Potions Master, Horace Slughorn.

"Uncle," she said, touching his arm, "Could I speak with you a moment?"

"Ah, Miss Saxon," Slughorn interrupted loudly, giving her that familiar look as though she was a particularly delicious chocolate he was about to devour. "How delightful to see you. I wondered if I might." He turned to the witch and wizard she didn't know. "Emily is one of my finest students. Very gifted. And will be an Auror one day, you mark my words."

She smiled, embarrassed. Slughorn was exaggerating. Her potions work was good enough to get her into his class at NEWT level, but she'd never been particularly adept at the subject. She'd never really understood how it all worked, and rather got the grades she had through working hard to memorise instructions that could be regurgitated later.

Being a Ravenclaw, not being able to grasp the nature of a subject, not knowing why you had to follow these instructions and not any other, was infuriating. This was made worse by the fact that Barty had no such trouble. Indeed, he was in Potions, as in most of his subjects, truly gifted. Unfortunately, he was also very aware of his exceptional talents, and was unbearably smug about it.

"You want to be an Auror?" the witch spoke up, cutting off Slughorn, who looked about to speak again.

Uncle Barty introduced the woman as Alice Longbottom, an Auror. Emily smiled. Everybody knew the Longbottoms were fantastic Aurors, and were in the Order of the Phoenix. She felt a little giddy being introduced to such a respected young witch.

"I'd liked to, yes," she replied, "That's the plan anyway."

She shared a glance with her uncle, who was beaming proudly.

"And this is Cornelius Fudge," Uncle Barty said, indicating the younger wizard in a pinstriped suit, who smiled at her.

"Cornelius is Junior Minister in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, the youngest wizard to hold such a position in- well, since I was his age."

Fudge's smile widened at these words. Uncle Barty certainly knew how to give compliments, and judging from the way Fudge's chest was puffed out importantly, it was working. He didn't seem to mind the slightly patronising manner the compliment was given, despite the fact that, seeing a few grey hairs at his temples, he didn't seem to be that much younger than Uncle Barty himself.

"A pleasure to meet you," Emily told them, feeling a little disappointed that she couldn't talk with Alice Longbottom for longer, then said, "Uncle-"

Slughorn had just asked Emily if she was looking forward to the new school year, when Uncle Barty - seeing the seriousness in her expression, interrupted him.

"Forgive me, Horace," he said loudly and insistently, "If you'll excuse us a moment."

Once out of earshot, Emily told him firmly that she thought it was time they left, for Aunt Celia's sake. Uncle Barty searched the room with his eyes, found his wife, and then hesitated, watching her.

"I suppose-" he began, then started again, "Perhaps she's feeling better than she looks. Has she asked to leave?"

"No. But she wouldn't, would she? She knows how important tonight is for you."

Emily was getting annoyed. She thought she knew why her uncle was hesitating; he wanted to stay. He wanted to carry on talking with his colleagues, but was torn between that and caring for his wife.

"I'll take her home," she said, "You can stay. I can even do Side-Apparition if she's not up to apparating herself. I've mastered it now."

Uncle Barty turned back to her, reading the stern expression on his niece's face. For a moment his eyes softened and she thought she saw what could have been guilt or shame there.

"It would be a shame for you to leave," he said at last, his usual severe demeanour back. "Moody's here somewhere. He might have been able to give you some advice for your application. And I'm sure Mrs Longbottom would be happy to discuss it with you."

The deadline for applying for Auror Training was the end of December. There was still plenty of time to talk to Alice Longbottom and Alastor Moody, and she told him so.

He was about to concede defeat when Aunt Celia appeared, the hand that held her glass of wine shaking slightly. When she whispered that she wasn't feeling very well, Emily saw again that softness and concern in her uncle's face. She even dared wonder if his concern would override his desire to stay, but Aunt Celia only had to say once that her and Emily would be fine to head home without him, and he was satisfied.

Disappointed once again in her uncle, Emily took her aunt's arm and they left.

Aunt Celia went straight to bed when they got back to Crouch Hall. Winky the house elf assured her that she would take care of her mistress, so Emily wandered out into the neatly kept garden at the back of the house. She'd expected to have some peace and solitude there, but was surprised when she found her cousin, sitting with his back to an old gnarled oak tree, smoking.

He acknowledged her with just a glance, and went back to staring into space. This meagre response wasn't unusual for him, so she joined him in the cool shade.

"Managed to escape early, did you?" he asked, smirking.

"Your mother wasn't feeling very well," she replied, "Your father decided to stay a little longer."

He gave her a cold look, before muttering darkly, "Why doesn't that surprise me."

The animosity between Barty and his father was a permanent feature of Crouch Hall. Emily couldn't remember the number of shouting matches she'd walked in on over the years, or how many times Aunt Celia had pleaded with them both to get along. But for a long time now the shouting had been replaced by a quiet, bitter resentment. Emily didn't know which was worse; at least this way they could pretend to be a functional family, but forever walking on eggshells was surely affecting her aunt's health.

'Idiots,' she thought, 'Selfish, stubborn idiots'.

"I didn't know you smoked," she said, forgetting to keep the annoyance from her voice. "And what exactly is it you're smoking?"

He smiled at her irritated tone, and said smoothly, "There's a great deal you don't know about me, dearest Cousin. Do you want to try it?" He offered her the cigarette. "It's my own unique blend."

"No thanks."

Merlin knows what the 'unique blend' was, and what it would do to you. Smoking anything other than tobacco was generally considered a very dangerous idea. Every so often, students would be caught experimenting with potion ingredients stolen from the school store cupboard, or plants filched from the greenhouses, and the consequences, she knew, could be very unpleasant.

Was this why Barty was so disinterested in everything? Was he forever stoned? She glanced sideways at him. He seemed alert enough, just bored. Realising she had no idea how to tell if someone's brain was addled by smoking dodgy substances, she filed the thought away for later.

"It's perfectly safe," he assured her, still holding out the burning cigarette, "I'm not an idiot, I know what I'm doing. It's mostly tobacco, with just a hint of sopophorous."

She took it, pretending to know what sopophorous was, and he showed her how to smoke it without spluttering everywhere. When she'd started to get the hang of it, she sat down next to him and leaned against the tree as well, a warmth spreading from her chest through her body. It felt surprisingly similar to Butterbeer.

"See?" he said, smiling and taking the cigarette back, "You _can_ trust me after all."

For a long time neither of them said anything. Emily watched Barty try to blow smoke rings, laughing and complimenting his obviously well-practiced attempts, and he seemed to enjoy entertaining her. As the sun sank ever lower in the sky, she rested her tired head on his shoulder. These comfortable silences between them were too rare these days, she thought.

The peace was shattered by Barty's next words.

"No doubt Father enjoyed _showing you off_ to his friends," he sneered, suddenly and unpleasantly animated. "Perfect prefect Emily. I'm surprised he hasn't already made you his sole heir."

She looked at him with surprise, her irritation rising again. Why was it that every time they got along he just couldn't help but bait her and ruin it?

"If I didn't know better," she muttered, pulling away from him, "I'd say you were jealous, Barty."

He laughed suddenly, and gave her a look of incredulity. "That's a joke, right? What exactly am I meant to be jealous of? Your pathetic fawning over him, or his manipulation of you? You do know he's using you, don't you? All Father cares about is his career."

"I don't_ fawn_," she muttered through gritted teeth, her flushed cheeks betraying how close to home that remark hit.

Barty smirked, then put out what was left of the cigarette on a nearby tree root.

"Well," he drawled, standing up, "you're welcome to him. It's bad enough I have to share a name with him without following him around like a lost lamb. I do have some self-respect."

And throwing her one last cold look, he sauntered back into the house, leaving Emily feeling confused and angry at his sudden and inexplicable change in mood. 

* * *

><p>It was both the same and different from how he remembered. The same portraits hung on the walls, his echoing footsteps sounded the same as he walked along its corridors, the stone walls felt the same under his fingertips, but something was different.<p>

It took Snape an embarrassingly long time to realise that it was he that had changed, not Hogwarts. The last time he was here, he'd been an angry and desperate teenager, driven by a burning ambition and, since the day he'd driven Lily away, nothing whatsoever to lose. Now he was an angry and desperate man, no longer naively believing in his own great potential, but racked with grief and loss. And nothing, whatsoever, to gain.

The war had left him empty and without purpose. With little to do but wait for Dumbledore's instructions, hiding in that filthy, tiny Muggle flat, he'd had far too much time to think.

Of course, he'd thought mostly of Lily. She occupied every waking hour, from the moment sunlight hit his closed eyelids, until at last exhaustion dragged him off into the land of sleep. But there was little respite there. His nightmares often consisted of him frantically searching for her, unable to find her, and unable to think how to get her back.

The nightmares were unnecessary, he knew. If he only practiced Occlumency before going to bed, he knew they would cease. If he only brewed or purchased a Dreamless Sleep potion, he would be free of them. But he just couldn't summon the will to make that effort. He wondered sometimes if he just enjoyed torturing himself.

_It's nothing less than you deserve._

Was this what his life would be like from now on?

Hogwarts was, of course, far quieter than how he remembered, as it was still empty of students. This peace would not last much longer, however. In only a few days the place would be crawling with children, and he, Severus Snape would be expected to teach them.

_How did it come to this? What am I even doing here? I'm no teacher. I hate children._

Dumbledore.

Trust Dumbledore, with his schemes, to demand such a service from him. No doubt he thought he was doing Snape a favour. Perhaps he thought being around children would change him somehow.

_Fat chance._

The Headmaster was delighted when Snape arrived at the castle, bringing with him only one case of possessions. He'd shown him to his new quarters in the dungeons, his office, the storeroom, and the classrooms. Snape had said little during the tour, not wanting to show how his heart had lifted a little when he was shown his own private laboratory, his own private storage room.

He supposed he could work here.

All evidence of Slughorn had, thankfully, been removed, and Dumbledore explained that Snape was welcome to make changes to suit his own taste.

"This is, after all, your home now," he'd said, adding, "at least during term time."

The first staff meeting was less pleasant. Many of his new colleagues Snape already knew, of course, from his student days. And they, most certainly, knew him.

The warmest welcome, besides Dumbledore's, had been Filius Flitwick's, who had grasped his hand in a firm handshake, studied his face for a moment, and then smiled. But the rest of them only nodded, eyeing him suspiciously as Dumbledore - unnecessarily - introduced them.

The look he got from Minerva McGonagall was particularly frosty, while Pomona Sprout murmured something in Poppy Pomfrey's ear, before exchanging a dark and significant look with the matron.

At least they attempted, if a little half-heartedly, to hide their contempt. Argus Filch and Rubeus Hagrid made no such effort. Filch refused to shake Snape's hand, but scowled at him, then at Dumbledore, and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Hagrid, on the other hand, almost broke Snape's fingers in his handshake, welcomed him back to Hogwarts with a grimace, before pulling him closer and growling loud enough for everyone to hear, "I got my eye on you."

None of this was particularly surprising. Snape had learnt as a student that Filch was a squib, and you only had to look at Hagrid to know he was half-giant. Both were the sorts of people that the Dark Lord wanted eradicated, an ideology that he, Snape, had been part of. He'd signed up for it knowing full well what it meant; he couldn't plead ignorance.

Hogwarts must have been a sanctuary for them, he thought, when nowhere else was safe. Filch probably took it as a personal insult, that Dumbledore had brought an old Death Eater right into their midst.

He couldn't blame them for their reaction. But he couldn't help feeling resentful at the reactions of the other Professors. The looks they gave him weren't that dissimilar to how they'd looked at him as a student. The same suspicion and dislike.

Just because he was in Slytherin. Just because he didn't suck up to them like the other students did. Well, he wasn't about to change now. Far from leaving the staff room with his tail between his legs - as no doubt they expected - he gave them all a sneer and sauntered out of the staff room with his nose in the air.

It was not in Snape's nature to lie down while someone beat him, and although he was still inwardly riddled with self-doubt and insecurity, he'd be damned if he was going to let his old teachers see how vulnerable he felt here.

Nevertheless, he decided there and then that he would spend as little time in the staff room as possible. 

* * *

><p>Besides Snape, there was another new teacher at Hogwarts this year. To everyone's relief, Dumbledore had managed to find someone to fill the post of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher.<p>

When Henry Dugbury arrived, just a day later than Snape, he was received entirely differently. The staff welcomed him with smiles and kind words. Only from Snape did he get an indifferent nod of acknowledgement, which, to Snape's irritation, didn't seem to bother the man in the slightest.

Dugbury was a middle-aged wizard with brown shaggy hair and beard, and a kind and genuine smile. Charming and likeable, Dugbury was everything that Snape was not.  
>He immediately impressed the rest of the staff with tales of his travels around the world, and the people and creatures he'd met.<p>

Snape almost laughed when he tried to imagine himself regaling his new colleagues with stories of how he'd spent the last few years. They might have been impressed by his achievements - of which there were a significant number, he remembered with pride - if they weren't so horrified at the depths of depravity to which he'd sunk.

But what bothered Snape most about Dugbury, was that besides his superior social skills, he was also, undoubtedly, an exceptional scholar. Whenever Snape ventured out of the dungeons - which was infrequently - he would find Dugbury deep in conversation with Dumbledore, or Flitwick, or McGonagall, discussing with confidence the fundamentals of magical theory.

Snape was sometimes tempted to join them, but Dugbury's easy charm made him self-conscious, and he invariably made excuses and left them to it. That a man should be graced with the gifts of intelligence, likeability _and_ - Snape scowled at the very thought - rugged good looks, seemed unbearably unfair.

He felt that old familiar friend - _jealousy_ - dormant for some time, flicker into life again. He was reminded, forcefully and unpleasantly, of one James Potter. _He_ had had everything, including gold, a loving family and purity of blood, everything that Snape had lacked, everything that he had wanted.

But in the end, he'd only really wanted one thing. He'd been blind, distracted by his other desires, too foolish to see that she was the only thing that mattered to him. Without her, he was nothing.

And now it was too late. There would never be a chance to make things right.

Each morning as he lay in his new four poster bed, staring up at the folds of the material canopy, the rest of his life stretched ahead of him, colourless and empty. How long did wizards live? Having already ruined his life - and he was still only twenty-three - it seemed to Snape that it was far, _far_ too long. It took every ounce of his will to get up, to force the darkness to the back of his mind, just so that he could get on with his day.

But there was still the boy. Harry. 

* * *

><p>As Barty Crouch Jnr sat on the Hogwarts Express, he tried to ignore the students milling around him.<p>

_Just one more year._

And then what? What did he really have to look forward to? His dreams had already been dashed. But there were still others, some who were still free… And surely there was still hope, still a possibility that He was out there, somewhere. He couldn't possibly be dead.

Barty had been tempted to not bother returning to Hogwarts this year, and to set off on his own. But that would require an explanation, and would ruin his chances of working in the Ministry. He was no fool. If the Dark Lord was indeed vanquished, he would need to find work, if only to fund his… other plans.

He stared out the window and brooded. Nobody bothered him. They'd learnt not to. 

* * *

><p>Meanwhile, his cousin, Emily Saxon was sitting in a smart Muggle office in the centre of London, nervously picking at her nails. The windows looked out onto the Thames, and from here she could see the Houses of Parliament.<p>

This was the first time she'd seen them up close, and she smiled, thinking how, well, magical they looked. Compared to the Muggle buildings she'd seen on her way here, Parliament looked decidedly Hogwartsian.

Her nervousness subsided when she met Mr Bartlett, a kind, elderly fellow. The pity she'd felt for him - as she felt for all squibs - was forgotten however when she saw how happy he seemed, and how easily he used the Muggle technology around him. On his desk were photos of a family; his wife and children, and upon an entire wall were proudly displayed his educational achievements.

"You don't remember me, I'm sure," he said after shaking her hand, "But I did meet you once, when you were a baby. Your father brought you and your brother here with him, when your mother was ill." He smiled. "It's lovely to see you again, as a grown woman. How the years have flown by…"

She returned the smile, but felt her heart sink a little at the thought of her parents, and how they would never see how she had grown.

Yes, today would be a sad day.

It was also a long day. Emily had expected the whole thing to take only a few hours at most, but there was a great deal more to it than that.

Mr Bartlett took a long time explaining how her father had managed his Muggle and wizarding affairs, and his own role - which seemed to be crucial - in that process. He explained that the delay in her inheritance was due to certain complicating factors.

"There are a few things you _couldn't_ inherit until today, and others that took a little time because of- well-"

Bartlett's cheeks turned pale and he avoided looking at her directly. Emily suddenly felt cold.

"Because my father's whole body wasn't found," she finished for him in a monotone. Only his left hand had been found at the scene of the attack, cut just above the wrist. It wasn't a clean cut, she remembered that. He was still wearing his wedding ring, and there was no sign of his wand.

"He's definitely dead," she said firmly and grimly, because Bartlett still looked unsure of what to say. "If he wasn't, I'd know by now."

The solicitor sighed sadly. "Yes, that was our reasoning as well."

Emily tried to stay focused as Bartlett read her both the magical and Muggle versions of her parents' wills. He revealed that her parents' house was still in her possession, and, to her surprise, that it had been kept almost exactly as it was since That Night.

She had assumed that her aunt had dealt with all of this already. When she voiced this to Mr Bartlett, he paused to remove and polish his glasses.

"Your parents' house is registered as a Muggle dwelling," he said slowly, "I believe she felt- unable- or unwilling, perhaps, to settle these affairs herself."

Aunt Celia wasn't an enormous fan of Muggles - that was no secret - but surely that wouldn't have prevented her from dealing with her sister's affairs. Now that she thought about it, she couldn't remember her aunt and uncle ever visiting her parents in their home, but wasn't she curious to see where her sister had lived, where she had _died_?

_Maybe she was just following my lead_, she thought,_ I never showed any desire to go back there._

But it seemed she no longer had a choice in the matter. She would have to go back.

If she'd thought there would be time to go that day, she was mistaken. It was nearly five o'clock before they reached what Mr Bartlett considered to be the most important part of her inheritance; her father's title and responsibilities.

Sensing her unease, he set the documents aside, took off his reading glasses again and paused to consider his words very carefully.

"Your father took his role as a Lord very seriously," he said eventually. "It meant a great deal to _his_ father - your grandfather. They considered it an honour, and a responsibility."

"What exactly does it mean for me?" she asked quietly, already dreading the answer.

"It means that very soon you'll be known as Lady Baroness Saxon of Northorpe."

"But I don't know anything about being a- I'm not a lady-" she protested.

Bartlett put up a hand to stop her, in a way that reminded her forcefully of Albus Dumbledore. She suddenly wished she was at Hogwarts right now. The Hogwarts Express would soon be arriving at Hogsmeade.

"Times have changed a great deal since your grandfather's day. Even if you wanted to take an active role in Muggle politics, it would be a struggle to get anyone to listen, especially at your age."

He tried to explain as briefly as he could - which wasn't very brief at all - about the history of the House of Lords, and the diminished role of hereditary peers in the business of government.

"Your father lived through a great many changes in the way the House of Lords was seen," Bartlett continued, "We often talked about it. He knew, as we all do, that these changes are inevitable, and aren't necessarily a bad thing."

"So, I-" she began, then faltered.

"So you will be a member of the House of Lords. In fact you've already been summoned." He brandished a large, cream coloured envelope, with some sort of insignia at the top. "But once the ceremony is over, you're not expected to do much else. If you want, you can limit your involvement to the barest minimum, and, if you decide to keep me employed as your solicitor and representative, I can make sure everything is kept in order, and you'll barely notice any of it."

He gave her a kind smile, but she hadn't noticed.

"What ceremony?" 


	4. The Man Of Your Dreams

**IMPORTANT** _Author's Note: I've condensed the existing chapters into fewer, longer chapters, so the pace I hope is quicker. The first few chapters took too long to get going. But for regular readers, you won't need to read chapters 1-3, none of the content has changed (actually, except the first few paragraphs of the first chapter are different, I've just cut a lot out, so you don't need to re-read if you don't want to). Similarly, you'll have read the first half of this chapter already. _

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4 - The Man Of Your Dreams<strong>

The unexpected ceremony earlier that day had been unexpectedly long, and it was nearly eleven o'clock at night when Emily finally arrived at Hogwarts. News of the ceremony had completely thrown her, but Mr Bartlett told her all she needed to know to get through it without raising suspicion amongst the Muggles she met. Even then, he never left her side. By the end of the day, it was clear that the elderly solicitor was indispensable. Over a late dinner, she told him she'd like him to remain in her employ, and he assured her that when they next had a chance to meet, they would sort out the remaining details of her family's affairs.

Yes, sadly, there was still her parents' house to deal with.

Emily suppressed a sigh as the portrait to Ravenclaw Tower swung open, and was immediately distracted by the fact that the Common Room was still full of students.

Besides Hagrid, who'd met her at the gates and kindly walked her up to the castle, she'd expected to find everyone asleep after the extravagant Sorting Feast. The last thing she'd expected was to find her peers having what looked like a serious discussion. Not even Ravenclaws had debates after the Sorting Feast.

"-You can't be certain of that, 'Hill."

"We'll find out soon enough."

The first voice belonged to Adriana Fletcher, an athletic seventh year girl, and Captain of the Ravenclaw Quidditch team. The second, quieter voice was unmistakeably Ferdinand. They were joined in the Common Room by what looked like everyone from fifth year and above. A few noses were buried in books, and two were playing chess, but most of them were watching the exchange between Fletcher and Ferdinand.

Emily was suddenly spotted by Helena, who asked loudly about her trip to London. A different sort of silence fell, tenser than usual, and everyone turned to look at her, apparently waiting for an answer. Their alertness was infectious. Helena and Ferdinand exchanged the briefest of looks.

"Uneventful," she replied curtly, unwilling to discuss her family's affairs in front of half of Ravenclaw House. Besides, she was far more interested in the heated conversation she'd walked in on. "How was the feast?"

"Not uneventful. This is Hogwarts after all." Helena gave Ferdinand an encouraging look, who, upon seeing that no one else was going to speak up, turned back to Emily.

"Remember that spy you mentioned, the one who worked for the Order of the Phoenix?" he asked, "Do you remember his name?"

"Snape," she answered easily, "Severus Snape. Why?"

"How can you be sure?" demanded Adriana, or Fletch, as she was often known.

"Because I was there when Igor Karkaroff _and_Albus Dumbledore named him," Emily replied coolly.

"But you might be mistaken. You might have misremembered it." This came from another student.

"I haven't."

"But how do you _know_?"

"Because I don't _misremember_details like that," she almost snarled, her patience wearing thin. "Why?" she asked again, louder this time, turning back to Ferdinand.

"Slughorn's retired," he said quietly, "There's a new Potions Master. His name's Snape."

"Dumbledore wouldn't allow a _Death Eater_ to teach _here_! He just wouldn't," a voice piped up from the direction of the stairs to the girls' dormitories. They all turned to see either Justine or her twin Rebecca, few could tell them apart, and crowded around behind them the rest of the younger Ravenclaws. The noises coming from the staircase to the boys dormitories told them the girls weren't the only ones listening in.

While Ferdinand and the other prefects told them all off for being up so late, and shooed them back to their dormitories, Emily considered this latest development. Would Dumbledore hire someone with such a dark past? He'd been known in the past to hire some pretty dodgy characters, but that was always for the Defence position, which was difficult to fill. And he'd never, so far as she knew, hired a criminal, let alone a potential murderer.

But if he was persuaded that someone had changed, that they truly regretted their actions, he may well show them mercy. Isn't that what he'd said at Karkaroff's trial? That Snape had changed, _before_the end of the war. That he'd betrayed You Know Who and his followers.

Granting someone their freedom from Azkaban was one thing, but bringing them to teach children was something else entirely. An error of judgement here would have such serious consequences that surely Dumbledore wouldn't risk the lives of his students unless he was absolutely certain that Snape was safe.

"Well, I think it's unlikely Snape's going to murder us in our beds tonight," said Helena with a yawn, "so I'm off."

Most of the remaining students apparently agreed that there was no imminent danger, and so followed suit. Emily briefly wondered about the castle defences, and how most of them were useless when the enemy was already inside the castle walls. Strategies and plans discussed over the past few years flitted across her mind. She glanced back at the entrance to the Common Room, biting her lip. But Helena was probably right; unless Snape was suicidal as well as murderous, it was unlikely he'd do anything tonight. She followed her friend up to the dormitory they shared.

They were just about to say goodnight when she suddenly remembered about Olwen and the Head Girl badge. Stifling another yawn, her friend confirmed her suspicions, that Olwen Greenlaw had indeed been made Head Girl, and was apparently very pleased about it.

Emily lay awake into the early hours of the morning, mulling over the day's events, particularly the news about Snape. How long had Dumbledore been planning this? Something this huge would surely be difficult to keep under wraps. She'd seen Slughorn herself during the summer, and he hadn't said a word about his retirement. But then she remembered the very limited coverage of Snape that had appeared in the Prophet. Frustrated at the spineless media, and even more so at the disproportionate power and influence of the Headmaster, she rolled over and tried to get comfortable.

Nevertheless, she was curious about this Snape guy. Who was he? What was his story? Had he really changed, or was it all part of a plan to make sure that, no matter which way the war went, he'd come out on top? Perhaps he'd suspected You Know Who was about to fall, perhaps he'd been privy to some information. No, she thought, nobody could have predicted You Know Who's downfall. To all appearances he'd been gathering strength, not losing it. And who could possibly have known that that tiny little infant, Harry Potter, would somehow beat him, against all the odds?

* * *

><p>The next morning at breakfast, Emily kept glancing up at the staff table. Helena had pointed out the new Professors to her straight away. Professor Dugbury, the new Defence teacher looked unremarkable enough and was soon forgotten, at least by her, but Emily's eyes were repeatedly drawn to the new Potions Master, sitting between Hagrid and Professor Sprout at the far end of the Staff Table. Throughout breakfast he barely raised his head from behind his newspaper, nor did he speak to the teachers on either side of him. From where she was sitting, Emily could see he was young, far younger than she'd been expecting. Indeed, she thought he looked barely older than they were.<p>

Her fellow Ravenclaws had noticed this too, and some were already expressing the intention of doing a little research on the new Professor in the library. Checking the school records would also have been useful, but only Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore had access to those, and nobody could think of an adequate reason for wanting to see them that would convince the Professors.

But it wasn't only Snape's youth that was bothering Emily. There was something else about him, something that was very wrong indeed. She had this annoying nagging feeling, as though she was forgetting something, something important. She supposed it was because there was the possibility that he was a Death Eater, and therefore dangerous, that put her on edge. Whatever the reason, when she'd dressed that morning, she'd decided to strap her wand holster to her left forearm, rather than keeping her wand in her bag.

The holster had been a gift from her uncle, the first Christmas she'd spent with the Crouches, and was generally used by duelling champions, Aurors, and the paranoid. However, Uncle Barty encouraged her to wear it wherever she went, even at Hogwarts, just in case. One never knew when one would need to quickly draw one's wand, and then there was the danger of being separated from one's schoolbag… But having her wand so quickly and easily at hand only marginally reassured her this morning.

It was only when Olwen came over from the Gryffindor table to hand her and the other prefects the rota for corridor patrol, that she noticed Ferdinand's absence. She saw him talking to some older Slytherins, presumably handing out the rota there, and for a moment she scanned her eyes over that particular table. There were definitely more of them this year, she decided. Their numbers had grown so much that there were almost as many in Slytherin as there were in each of the other Houses. She wondered suddenly if that's what it had been like before the war had started, before her own schooldays. The thought that eventually the numbers in each house would balance again did not please her.

It was no secret that Emily Saxon hated Slytherin House, and had no friends, and plenty of enemies there. It amazed her that Dumbledore allowed a House to continue that explicitly and proudly defended its pureblood ideology. Even without the context of the war against You Know Who - whereby Slytherin House was clearly a breeding ground for Death Eaters - it was still wrong to allow such discriminatory practices, against Muggleborns and half-bloods, to continue. Doing nothing was as bad as being in favour of it. It was this difference of opinion, she thought, that had chipped away at the trust she had once placed in the Headmaster's governance of the school, a trust that was about to be put to its greatest test by the appointment of the new Potions Master.

Her musings over the Slytherin Problem were interrupted by a conversation taking place nearby. Some of the prefects were complaining to Olwen about the new rota, who was putting up a good effort defending it.

"How are we meant to fit this all in, alongside homework _and_Quidditch practice?"

"-Surely we don't have to patrol as much this year-"

"-It's safer now-"

Emily studied the rota herself. There were in fact far fewer patrols planned than in previous years, which was to be expected, but prefects were still expected to patrol at least one evening a week each. She noticed too that rather than rotating patrol partners, as they'd done last year, they would be assigned one partner, who they'd stick with for a term at least. Her partner was a Gryffindor fifth year prefect she'd never met, by the name of Julian Laurent. At least he wasn't a Slytherin, she thought, hoping too that he wasn't a Quidditch obsessive.

Olwen looked about to give up reasoning with the prefects, at which point, Emily decided to step in.

"You may think the danger's past," she said quietly and seriously, leaning across the table and looking the loudest complainers in the eye, "but I think you're forgetting that there's quite probably a Death Eater in our midst. Until we know more about the new Potions Master, it's important that we're vigilant. And there are still Death Eaters at large outside Hogwarts. Those two factors combined _could_make for more, not less, danger."

She sat back in her seat and returned her attention to her untouched breakfast. None of the prefects complained after that. In fact, nobody said anything, they all seemed lost in their own thoughts. Olwen also seemed at a loss for words, and so she simply said, "Good," and went to rejoin her Gryffindor friends.

"Well," said Helena, not looking up from her own copy of the _Daily Prophet_, "I'll tell you one thing Em, you certainly know how to scare the shit out of people."

Emily ignored her and again glanced up at the staff table. None of the teachers seemed particularly anxious about their new colleague, but even if they were, it was unlikely they'd display their concerns at breakfast in front of the whole school. Yet it would have been very surprising if they hadn't had _some_reservations about Snape's appointment.

She wondered suddenly who was now Head of Slytherin House, since Slughorn was gone, and was about to ask Helena if Dumbledore had mentioned it the night before, when Barty came and sat down next to her. This was such an unusual occurrence that she looked at him expectedly. He didn't disappoint.

"I sent an owl to Father last night," he murmured quietly, a sneer tugging at the corners of his mouth, "I'm sure he'd be very interested to know Snape's been _hiding_at Hogwarts."

They exchanged dark looks, then glanced up at the offending man, both their faces clearly showing their antipathy and suspicion of the new Professor. They watched Snape as he continued to read his newspaper, whilst reaching blindly for his goblet. Unable to lay his hands on it, he looked up, and for a moment he glanced in their direction. Emily gasped and dropped her gaze to her plate. That nagging feeling was back, stronger this time, and accompanied by a strong and unpleasant sense of déjà vu.

But _why_? It felt as though the cogs in her brain were sticky with honey as she attempted to remember, to figure out what was bothering her. She tried in vain to block out the noise of the chattering students surrounding them, distracting her, tried to _think_. A second ago it had felt as though she almost had the answer, but now it was slipping away with every passing moment.

Suddenly feeling as though she had to get away right now, she mumbled an excuse, ignored Helena's protestations that they should soon be in class, rose to her feet and walked hurriedly between the tables. The doors to the Entrance Hall seemed so far away, but she didn't dare run. She hadn't even reached the end of the Ravenclaw table when the final piece of the puzzle fell into place, and caused her to stumble and almost double over, winded by the horrific realisation of what was so wrong about Severus Snape.

She recognised him, she'd seen him before. The long dark hair, the large, hooked nose. _Those eyes_. She _knew_ him. But it was impossible, surely. There _had_ to be a mistake. How could_ he_ be Snape? How could _he_be the spy?

_He's here, now!_

Brought back to the present with a jolt, she spun around, only to find the man himself walking towards her.

_Oh shit oh shit oh shit._

She immediately began to sweat as fear coursed through her veins. She was transfixed by him; the figure from her nightmares, here, in the flesh. Actually real. He'd only glanced at her once as he approached, but seeing that she wasn't going to move aside to let him pass, he gave her a longer look. Somewhere inside her, her stomach twisted and clenched with every jolt of recognition. It was definitely him. How could she have forgotten _that face_?

Snape didn't come to a standstill until they were only a few feet apart. His face was pulled in an expression of distaste, which changed to irritation as he stood there looking at her, waiting impatiently for her to step aside. Emily had to force herself not to take a step backwards. At last, her brain kicked in.

_Do it - _a voice inside said_ - Do it NOW!_

She fumbled desperately for her wand, her nervous fingers getting tangled in her sleeve - so much for the holster - but faltered when he spoke.

"Do you mind?" he asked, raising one eyebrow. His voice was quiet and smooth, not at all what she'd been expecting. In fact, she didn't know what she'd expected, she'd never even imagined what he sounded like. In her dreams he was always silent; a silent monster.

Suddenly aware of the eyes of the surrounding students on her, a glimmer of courage reappeared inside her. Memories of Marcus, who'd once sat in this very hall, stabbed painfully at her heart, but they only served to strengthen her resolve.

Her fingers had just grasped her wand when Dumbledore appeared behind Snape, smiling as though there wasn't a _murderous Death Eater_standing in front of him.

He said something that was obviously meant to diffuse the situation, but Emily wasn't listening. She was staring at the hand the Headmaster had placed protectively, _kindly_, on Snape's shoulder. Confusion, and then anger, replaced the fear as it began to recede.

Feeling temporarily beaten, she stood aside to let them pass. As she watched Snape and Dumbledore leave the Great Hall _together_, she cursed herself for her hesitation. The moment was gone. She hadn't done it. She'd had a chance and she hadn't taken it. Fear had paralysed her. After all the waiting, the practicing, the preparing, in the end, she was still that frightened little girl who'd hidden while her family was murdered. Her cheeks grew hot as shame mingled with the fear still thumping away in her heart.

Snape didn't look back at the girl as he followed the Headmaster out into the Entrance Hall, but he was thinking of her. He'd seen the fear in her eyes, seen the way her hand searched for her wand, just reaching it as Dumbledore arrived. What would she have done if he hadn't appeared at that moment?

Emily Saxon.

Dumbledore had already warned him about her. She was Barty Crouch's niece, and daughter to two murdered Order members. She hated the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters, and this dislike and distrust extended to Slytherin House. She'd also been present at Karkaroff's trial. She would remember his name, there was no doubt about that.

No doubt her friends had already filled her in on the events of the night before. There had been little initial reaction then when Dumbledore had introduced him to the hall full of adolescents. There were so _many_ of them! But he'd noticed the clusters of whispering students during the course of the evening, stealing fearful glances up at him, as those who read the _Daily Prophet_spread the news. By the time the feast was over, they all knew who he was.

All thoughts of Emily Saxon were pushed from his mind as the day ahead - his first day of lessons - loomed over him threateningly, almost overwhelming him. Placating the Headmaster with an excuse, he disappeared into the dungeons to prepare himself for his first class.

* * *

><p>By the end of the first day, Emily was exhausted. Her emotions had flitted rapidly throughout the day between terror, anger and hurt, each threatening to overwhelm her in their turn. Seeing her brother's killer again had opened a wound she had thought was long closed. Every hour she expected Snape to come bursting in to her classroom or the library where she was studying, his dark eyes cold and cruel, his wand out.<p>

Ready to finish what he'd started.

She wondered if he knew who she was, and how long it would take him to work it out. She was certain he hadn't seen her during the attack - she'd be dead otherwise - but if he was half as clever as everyone said he was, sooner or later, the penny would drop.

During quiet moments, her mind wandered, inevitably revisiting her memories of That Night all those years ago. She relived the most vivid moments; her mother's scream, Marcus duelling with Snape, his final fall, finding what remained of her father. Grief then turned to righteous anger at the unfairness of the situation, and heaven help anyone nearby when this change in mood came around.

Half way through Charms she accidentally caused Professor Flitwick's pile of books that he stood on to fly off in all directions, causing her Head of House to tumble to the floor, and one of the books to hit Ferdinand on the back of the head. She apologised profusely again and again, surprised and ashamed at her lack of control, but thankfully only lost five points to Ravenclaw. Flitwick had smiled and said, "Even the best of us lose control once in a while," before launching into an anecdote about how he'd broken a glass jar during an encounter with an unhelpful shop assistant only a few years ago.

As the day wore on, Emily thought again of Helena's words the night before, and came to realise how unlikely it was that Snape would do anything to jeopardize his cushy new position at Hogwarts. Dumbledore's word had saved him from a life sentence in Azkaban, but this would surely vanish if something were to happen the very year he started teaching here. With You Know Who gone, it wasn't in his interest to stir up trouble. Better to keep his head down and wait for people to forget.

As if his victims ever would.

But what would he do when he found out what she knew? If she could identify him as being present on the night of her family's murder, would he try and get rid of her? Was she even safe here anymore? The thought of leaving Hogwarts early was almost unbearable, made more so by the thought that she'd be leaving him here to do as he wished. No, if she could only achieve one thing in her life, it would be ridding the free world of Severus Snape.

That evening, Emily patrolled the corridor with Julian Laurent. At first, Julian tried to strike up a conversation with her, but soon gave up when it became apparent she wasn't in the mood. Instead, he followed her lead and kept his wand out and his eyes peeled for anything out of the ordinary. On this, his first patrol as prefect, he was quietly glad of his good fortune at having Emily Saxon as a partner.

Long after curfew, they were walking past the entrance to Dumbledore's office on the seventh floor, when Emily stopped in front of the stone gargoyle.

"I need to speak with the Headmaster. It's important. Kindly inform him that I'm here. And don't pretend that you can't because I know that you can," Emily said matter-of-factly, while Julian watched in confusion and something akin to awe at the confidence and authority she exhibited. They were meant to be meeting some of the other prefects several floors below here. Julian would have reminded her of this fact if he wasn't so curious to see if the gargoyle would actually follow her command.

One of the portraits nearby huffed and tutted and launched into a tirade about the cheek of young people these days, but Emily didn't seem to have heard. It was difficult to tell whose stare was the stoniest, hers or the gargoyle's. Then, less than a minute later, the statue came to life and a set of stone stairs appeared behind it, spiralling up to the Headmaster's office. Before stepping onto the staircase, Emily turned to Julian.

"Don't wander," she said simply, "I won't be long." Apparently oblivious to her patronising tone, and the irritated blush it induced in her patrol partner, Emily climbed the stairs.

In her head she had already prepared what she was going to say - she'd been thinking of little else all day. She would just have to tell him everything, that much was clear. She'd never spoken about her experiences to anyone before, and she hoped now that she could at least deliver the important points to Dumbledore without completely breaking down in front of him. Perhaps he'd understand, she thought. Perhaps he wouldn't think her a selfish coward when he found out she'd saved herself, and done nothing but watch while her family was murdered.

She took one last deep breath before knocking on the office door. When it swung open, however, fear flooded her again when she saw that Dumbledore wasn't alone. Snape was there, as was McGonagall. They all looked at her, calculatingly. Her voice failed her, so she coughed and started again.

"I wondered if I could speak with you, Headmaster, alone," she said quietly, trying to salvage some of the confidence she'd had with the gargoyle.

Dumbledore and McGonagall shared a glance, and the Transfiguration Professor left. Snape seemed about to leave as well, but Dumbledore stopped him.

"I presume you're here because of Professor Snape. In which case, it seems only appropriate that he should remain."

Fine, she thought angrily. If Dumbledore, or Snape, if he was indeed unduly influencing the Headmaster, wanted to play that way then that was fine by her.

"Sir, some students have expressed concern-" she began.

"Some students? Who?"

"_Many_ students have, sir, over the appointment of - _Professor_- Snape," she insisted, with just a hint of a sneer. Certainty in the righteousness of her position returned, strengthening her. She stood a little taller. "They no longer feel safe here."

Dumbledore sighed. "I am _truly_sorry to hear that."

The Headmaster looked sad and old, and for a brief moment she felt guilty, but then remembered that _she_ was in the right. What did Dumbledore expect? That he could just bring a _Death Eater_to Hogwarts and everybody would be fine about it?

He asked her to sit, and she perched herself on the edge of the squashy armchair McGonagall had vacated, not allowing herself to relax as long as Snape was nearby, and glad that he was standing where she could easily keep an eye on him while still talking to Dumbledore.

"Emily," said Dumbledore quietly, leaning forward and looking at her intently, "The last thing I want is for my students to feel that they're in danger, especially when there is none. Merlin knows the war has taken its toll, on the young in particular. I don't suppose you remember what it was like, before the war."

He paused, aware perhaps that he only had half her attention.

That last sentence had brought a lump to her throat. No, she didn't remember life before the war, before You Know Who. Danger had always been there, dominating her life, even before she lost her family. She was, like so many her age, a child of war.

Dumbledore went on, "And it's understandable that you should be concerned, suspicious even, but I repeat now what I said to the Wizengamot: Severus is no more a Death Eater now than you or I._ I trust him_."

His tone had that edge of finality she knew too well, that told her this topic wasn't up for discussion. Her eyes flicked back to Snape. Throughout the conversation he'd made no sound, and only occasionally glanced her way. Each time he did, she felt that ripple of fear, mingled with disbelief. _It was really him._

Dumbledore watched her, waiting for her give in. He would be waiting a long time.

"It isn't just that," she said quietly, "Sir, you know it isn't just- even if you're right about- it's still _wrong_!"

She _wanted_ to say. There was a part of her that wanted him to know, wanted to trust in him like she once had. But something, shame perhaps, and fear held her back. Perhaps if Snape hadn't been there, perhaps if she could have _shown_Dumbledore without having to actually say it, perhaps if she wasn't so used to keeping this secret to herself, she might have unburdened herself at last. But even the hope of relief wasn't enough to endure the initial pain and uncertainty.

But she had to say something. Dumbledore was watching her expectedly, and Snape was looking at her with curious eyes.

She swallowed. "I was raised to believe in justice," she said firmly, in the lecturing mode she'd often seen her Uncle use, "And that no one is above the law, no matter how powerful their friends are-"

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows just a little. She went on.

"-If someone commits a crime, they should be punished. They shouldn't be rewarded with a- _a nice job_ and- _protection_ from the rule of law. Our actions have _consequences_, and people shouldn't be allowed to- to avoid facing up to those. It doesn't matter how _sorry_they are, nothing can change what they've done-"

She was angry now. All the emotion that had been rolling around inside her during the day was returning. Coupled with exhaustion, she struggled to get her words out coherently.

"I believe your parents also taught you to be merciful," said Dumbledore, cutting across her mid-flow, "And the value of giving someone a second chance."

Furious at his hypocrisy, she stood up suddenly, and half turned away from him before realising she'd be turning her back on Snape as well. If she wasn't so angry, she might have cared about her rather undignified movements, and how she was rapidly losing the upper hand in this conversation.

How dare he bring her parents into this? How dare he lecture her about their ideals? She knew better than anyone what they stood for, what they had died for! They sacrificed their lives for _peace_ and _justice_ and now their memories were being trampled on because _their son's killer_ wanted a second chance. And _Snape_, just standing there, _rubbing_ her face in it, lording it over her! He probably thought this was all so fucking hilarious! Couldn't believe his luck, being able to _watch_ her suffer because of him and his killer friends! How she wished he would just _die_-

"Emily," said Dumbledore quietly, having risen himself and gone to stand beside her. He placed a hand on her shoulder, unwittingly reminding her of the very same gesture he'd used on Snape that morning. "The war's over. Now's the time for peace. And sometimes that means forgiving old enemies."

She stared up at that kind old face, the man they all trusted and respected, the greatest wizard of the age. Everyone said he was such a force for good. Everyone said he was honest, and just.

Everyone was wrong.

"Is that why you wrote that piece for the _Prophet_, accusing the Wizengamot of corruption after Lucius Malfoy was released without charge? _Sir_," she added, not even bothering to hide her contempt.

Dumbledore's expression changed, becoming hard. There weren't many students who dared speak to him in such a tone, and they all were made to regret it. He'd allowed her to speak her mind, had tried to allay her fears and make her see his side of things, because she'd had a difficult few years, and was understandably anxious. But also because she was respected by her peers, and he feared many would follow her lead if she wanted to make things difficult for Severus.

Perhaps he was wrong to entertain her so long. Perhaps all it would do would feed her own inflated sense of entitlement and importance, a sense that clearly didn't befit a student, even a seventh year prefect. She may be good at duelling, and she may have survived a Death Eater attack when she was thirteen, but she was never in the Order herself. She would do better to remember that.

He swallowed that last thought before it slipped out, knowing that he'd regret it. There was no sense in aggravating her further. Before he could say anything, however, the door opened and Professor McGonagall rushed in.

"They're here," she hissed at Dumbledore.

In an instant, Dumbledore forgot Emily and turned to the Potions Master, who was suddenly alert. "Severus, I suggest you leave."

"There's no time," said McGonagall, glancing behind her down the stairs.

"Then Floo."

"Not so fast, _Snape_."

It was Uncle Barty, followed by a man Emily didn't recognise. Both had their wands drawn, but kept them at their sides. Uncle Barty's eyes glittered as he scanned the room once, resting for a fraction of a second on Emily, and then a delighted smile played across his mouth when he saw Snape, darting between him and the Headmaster.

"So," he drawled, "this is where you've been hiding him, Albus."

_Severus Snape_. He would be Bartemius Crouch's greatest catch, the jewel in his crown. His arrest would surely secure him the Ministerial election. Dumbledore had been foolish to bring him out into the open so soon after the war, when wounds were still fresh, when the public was still thirsty for blood. And to bring him to Hogwarts, to teach! Did he not realise that when it came to the protection of their children, parents lost all sense of reason and rationality? The old man was clearly losing his touch.

"Barty," said Dumbledore brightly, positioning himself between Uncle Barty and Snape, "and Mr Adams, I believe. What brings you to Hogwarts at such an ungodly hour?"

"Don't play games with me, Dumbledore," said Uncle Barty in a quiet, deadly voice, "You know full well why we're here. You can't really have thought there'd be no consequences when you hired a _Death Eater_to teach."

"Who I choose to hire is not the concern of the Ministry, Barty," said Dumbledore with ease, "And since Severus was cleared of all charges by the Wizengamot-"

"On your evidence!" barked Uncle Barty, "And _only_ your evidence!" He smiled again, brining his anger under control. "You may be a powerful wizard, but you and I both know that you can't govern alone. And you _are_ alone on this, Dumbledore. You may _think_you can ignore the Governors, or even the parents, but can you really do without them if you've also lost the support of the students? Of the staff?"

He flung a hand in McGonagall's direction, who was looking quietly defiant, but was avoiding Dumbledore's gaze. The Headmaster seemed to understand something, and for a second his expression showed a touch of sadness, and bitterness. They should have had more warning of Crouch's arrival. There should have been time to make sure Severus was safely in the dungeons, allowing Dumbledore to deal with the Ministry alone.

Instead, he was in a situation that was far from ideal. He didn't particularly want to have this conversation in front of one of his students either, _especially_Emily Saxon.

Judging from the look on her face, the sudden tension between McGonagall and Dumbledore wasn't missed by Emily, who was staring at McGonagall in shock. She'd clearly underestimated the Transfiguration Professor. She'd assumed, mainly because McGonagall was a Gryffindor like Dumbledore, because she was Deputy Head, and taught the same subject Dumbledore used to teach, that she wouldn't dare defy the Headmaster, even if she disagreed with him. Emily made a mental note of this new, potentially useful information.

Uncle Barty chose this triumphant moment to touch his niece's shoulder and told her to wait outside for him. She opened her mouth to protest, but he silenced her with a stern look. She would do as she was told, if only to make it abundantly clear to Dumbledore where her loyalties lay. Throwing one last unfriendly glance at Snape, she walked back down the stone staircase. McGonagall shut the office door behind her.

Julian Laurent wasn't the only one waiting for her in the corridor. He was chatting easily to Olwen Greenlaw, while her patrol partner, a Slytherin judging by the green trim of his robes, stood some way away, looking bored.

"Jules said your uncle arrived, with one of the governors," said Olwen quickly once she saw Emily.

Emily caught the glint of Olwen's Head Girl badge, felt the first twinge of jealousy since arriving at Hogwarts, but pushed it to the recesses of her mind. There were far more important things going on than her rivalry with Olwen. She confirmed Julian's story, but gave non-committal responses to their other questions. She was in even less of a mood to be sociable after that conversation with Dumbledore.

She pretended to eye the Slytherin prefect with suspicion, if only to avoid looking at the Gryffindors, but somehow she couldn't muster the passion to make it convincing. Slytherin House suddenly looked tame compared to the new Professor.

"There's talk of starting a petition," said Olwen, watching closely for Emily's reaction, "And more and more are writing home to their parents, and getting them to complain."

None of this was new. Emily had heard talk of such things all day. They had struck her as brilliant ideas at first, but after seeing Dumbledore's refusal to listen tonight, she was less sure. More than ever, she needed to speak to her uncle.

The wait was longer than expected, and by the time Uncle Barty descended the staircase, the governor in tow, Emily was alone in the corridor. Her heart sank at the furious look on her uncle's face. Mr Adams, now looking rather harassed, didn't hang around once he saw Emily waiting for them. They walked a little until they were out of earshot of anyone coming or going from the Headmaster's office, and then she turned to Uncle Barty, desperately hoping for _some_good news.

There didn't seem to be any at first - Dumbledore wasn't in the least bit intimidated by their visit, and at one point implied that if Snape was to go then he would too, so confident was he that his critics didn't stand a chance. But Uncle Barty wasn't a man to give up easily. It was because of his dogged determination and resilience that he'd risen to the top of the Ministry, that under his watch they'd caught and imprisoned so many criminals. True, Dumbledore was an opponent unlike any other he'd faced, but in politics there was always a way, if you only knew how to find it.

The look of fear and despair on his niece's face pained him, and he took her face in his hands and forced her to look up at him.

"What have I always told you, when a way forward seems impossible?" he demanded sternly.

"'If we work together, we can defeat our enemies'," she recited without conviction. There was a lump in her throat again, and she desperately wanted to look away so he wouldn't see.

"That's right. You and me, working together. Using our intelligence, and our _cunning_. I can't do this without you, Emily."

There was a warm, fuzzy feeling inside her that seemed both alien and familiar, like a half-forgotten dream.

"Now," he fell back into his business-like manner, "We're agreed that Snape has to go, and there are two ways of doing that. Either exert influence over Dumbledore, or over Snape. Personally I favour the former, as the latter is a complete unknown. Who knows what motivates such a man?"

"We're starting a petition," she said, feeling better now that they were planning something, "And getting parents to write in and complain."

"Excellent," he said, and she almost grinned with pleasure, "Get them to write to the governors as well. Harder for Dumbledore to ignore them then. I'll do what I can to rally support as well, from outside Hogwarts, and Adams may be useless in most regards but its reassuring to know we have at least one of the governors on our side. Of course it would be so much easier if we had some way of disproving Dumbledore's trust in him-"

She said nothing, somehow even less willing to share her secrets with him than with Dumbledore. Telling Uncle Barty meant telling the whole world, she was sure. That she seemed to trust Dumbledore more than her own uncle made her feel terribly guilty, especially after all Uncle Barty had done for her.

"In the meantime, I need you to keep an eye on him," he went on, suddenly sombre, "You're my eyes and ears here. Don't hesitate to contact me."

The seriousness of his tone made its impact on her. This wasn't a game. They were dealing with a very dangerous Dark wizard, who currently had the support and protection of the most powerful wizard in the land. That Snape was dangerous was obvious. Either he'd fooled You Know Who or he'd fooled Dumbledore, which meant he must be very clever, very manipulative, and an exceptionally skilled Occlumens.

She forced her rising fear back down, quieting it with anger. Snape had murdered Marcus. She'd been preparing for this moment for years, dreamt she'd one day track him down. Not once had she imagined he'd walk right into Hogwarts, as a _teacher_. Still, it was too good an opportunity to miss.

Seeing her grim smile, Uncle Barty's expression grew soft once more.

"Are you using your wand holster?"

She nodded, deciding not to tell him how she'd fumbled with it earlier that same day.

"Good girl. And-" he paused, then touched her cheek once more, "be _careful_. Your aunt would never forgive me if something happened to you. A man like Snape is dangerous-"

"I know what he is," she said seriously, "I've been waiting for this for five years, I know what to do."

"Try to avoid being alone with him. And say the same to your friends. Look after each other-"

A sound behind them cut short Uncle Barty's sentence. They turned to see her cousin, watching them, his face a mask of indifference and a pile of books under one arm. How long had he been standing there?

"Barty!" Emily hissed, "It's almost midnight! Only prefects are allowed out after curfew!"

A scowl darkened his face, but he said nothing. Instead he just kept staring at his father. Emily was rather glad the look wasn't meant for her, but Uncle Barty didn't seem at all fazed by his son's behaviour.

"You have one year left here," he said curtly, "which is hardly enough time to make up for the _disappointment_ of your record so far, but do _try_ not to drag the family name down any_ further_, won't you?"

And with that burning viciously in his son's ears, he gave Emily's shoulder a gentle squeeze that she knew was meant as a further dig at Barty, and strode away down the corridor. Emily eyed Barty a little warily, but he seemed to relax a little as soon as his father was gone.

"So?" he asked, as they walked back to Ravenclaw Tower. "When can we start the campaign against Snape?"

She caught him grinning and couldn't help but return it.

"Immediately."

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: I welcome all comments, criticisms, reviews etc. I enjoyed this last one - the Crouches are a joy to write, though I hope they're more rounded than they're portrayed in canon - they're both capable of compassion and kindness, which if anything makes them more frighteninginteresting/tragic. Let me know what you think!  
><em>


	5. Coming Apart At The Seams

_Author's Note: Sorry for the massive delay, but I haven't forgotten about this story. Most of chapter 6 is also done (it was going to be one chapter, but it just kept getting bigger and bigger, so I split them) so it won't be such a long gap next time. Thanks for your patience!_**  
><strong>

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><p><strong>Chapter 5 - Coming Apart At The Seams<strong>

Evening was setting in. In the Transfiguration classroom on the fourth floor, a young witch with short black hair and heavy eye make-up was silently going through the annual ritual of removing her assorted jewellery and accessories before an older, stern witch in emerald green robes.

"I would have thought, Miss McKay," Professor McGonagall remarked dryly, "that by now you would have accepted what does and what doesn't constitute 'school uniform'."

"I always hope," Helena replied in a wistful voice, placing the last bangle on the table and setting to work on her make-up, "that my efforts to express my individuality will one day be valued."

Neither said anything after that, but McGonagall's mouth, set as it was in a thin line, twitched.

From the corridor, a pair of voices drifted in through the open classroom door.

"-I see, yes, but that won't work against Howlers."

"No, but a combination of charms- Ah, Minerva-"

The owners of the voices, Professors Flitwick and Dugbury appeared, and looked about to include McGonagall in their discussion, but stopped when they saw Helena. Flitwick's eyes roved over the pile of jewellery, understood, and suddenly looked like he was trying very hard not to smile.

Despite his efforts, his eyes danced as he said in mock exasperation, "Not _again_, Miss McKay."

McGonagall caught his eye and gave him a stern look, but this only made it harder for him to keep a straight face. Dugbury merely watched, bemused.

"That will do, Miss McKay," McGonagall said crisply, collecting the confiscated jewellery. "You can have these back at the end of term. And I do _not _expect to see them on your person in _January_ either, or I shall have to start deducting House points."

Helena nodded politely and left the room. Inside, she was smiling. Every year they did this, and every year McGonagall threatened punishment, but not one single point had she taken from the young witch.

It had been McGonagall who'd turned up on her doorstep when she was eleven, with a Hogwarts letter in her hand and a fantastical story to tell about a school for witches, a place where she would belong. Over the years, Helena had come to trust and admire McGonagall more than any other adult in the wizarding world, and she hoped the feeling was mutual. This particular ritual of theirs had by now acquired a pleasant familiarity; the school year simply didn't begin until Helena tried, and failed, to break the uniform code.

As she made her way to the library, her mind turned to the fragment of conversation she'd overheard between Flitwick and Dugbury. It didn't take a genius to work out that they were discussing the Snape Situation.

Every morning that week, letters from anxious parents had been streaming into the Great Hall. On the third day, a Howler had arrived, that screeched obscenities and insults at the new Professor, and warned the Headmaster not to betray those who'd laid down their lives during the war. There had followed a stunned silence as the red envelope ended its tirade. Nobody had ever heard of a Howler arriving for a _teacher _before, let alone the _Headmaster_.

But the worst - or best, depending on how you looked at it - had arrived that morning. A very ordinary looking package was dropped in front of Snape by an unknown owl, that burnt his hands so badly he spent the morning being bandaged up in the Hospital Wing. The furious power emanating from Dumbledore as he escorted Snape out of the Hall was frightening to watch.

Snape's arrival was still the most talked about topic in the school. Those who'd been taught by him were quick to relay every detail of their experience to their peers. They all said broadly the same. He was very strict, and tolerated no talking or messing around. He spent each lesson sat behind his desk, watching, and saying little.

The petition for his removal had been circulating all week, and was, according to Emily, going rather well. She spent many an hour talking to her fellow pupils, gently helping them see that signing it was the Right Thing To Do. Although many expressed doubts about going against the Headmaster, they were mostly reassured by her insistence that they weren't _really_ going against him, but rather "registering their disapproval of Snape".

In the Common Rooms, debates raged over the issue. Helena had listened with curiosity the first few times, but they invariably ended with raised voices, someone in tears, and unpleasant accusations hurled at either camp. There was always someone who took it too personally, who accused the doubters of not understanding or caring about those who'd lost loved ones to Death Eater attacks, or even of being Death Eater sympathisers themselves. This didn't go down well, particularly in Ravenclaw. They resented what they saw as emotional blackmail. Helena had to confess - though not in front of Emily - that she sympathised with this point. There was nothing worse than being forced to believe something against your will.

And so, in less than a week, several long standing friendships stood on a knife edge. Snape's presence at Hogwarts was rapidly turning into a thorny, divisive issue, and tensions were reaching breaking point. As Ferdinand tried to reconcile the divided Ravenclaw students, Emily explained that Snape's appearance at Hogwarts was bound to open up old wounds for those who were still grieving for the war dead. It felt like a slap in the face, she'd said, in what became a surprisingly emotional spiel, in which everyone in the Common Room, not just those she was addressing, turned to listen.

Even Ferdinand and Helena had been taken aback by what she'd said. Although she'd explained it in a way that made it sound like a general statement, her friends knew it was also personal to her. Nobody had known how to respond. Some who had been uncertain, had simply asked to sign the petition, now understanding just how important this was for their fellow pupils. Others, who still didn't want to choose sides, promised to think about it, and it was silently agreed by everyone that Snape would not divide them any longer.

Emily didn't hang around to see the effects of her words. Before Helena or Ferdinand could think of anything to say, she had disappeared through the portrait hole and wasn't seen for the rest of the evening.

* * *

><p>Ferdinand hadn't moved from their spot in the library when Helena returned from her 'meeting' with McGonagall. He glanced up when she sat down next to him, noticed the change in her appearance, and with a small smile, went back to his reading.<p>

"Where's Emily?" whispered Helena, pulling her own books and parchment towards her.

"God only knows," replied Ferdinand, his smile becoming a grimace, "Probably haranguing some poor kid to sign that blasted petition."

Helena saw the small frown creasing his forehead.

"She's right, you know," she said quietly, "About Snape. He shouldn't be here, it isn't right."

"I know that," he replied, still not looking up, "I signed it, didn't I."

"You hesitated."

At last Ferdinand raised his head, but now Helena was - or appeared to be - engrossed in her own work. He glanced around but nobody was watching them, then he leaned closer.

"This isn't easy for me," he whispered, "I'm Head Boy! Dumbledore trusts me, and- This is all making me very uncomfortable."

Helena stared at him. "Do you think this is easy for _her_? For any of us? People like Snape _kill _people like me."

It had come out a little louder than intended, and a few nearby students glanced in their direction. One of the older ones gave them such a glare for disturbing the peace that they both fell silent and went back to their reading.

After a minute, Ferdinand whispered, "Sorry."

He was watching her with that small frown of concern. She tried to reassure him with a smile, then, suddenly embarrassed, she dropped her gaze to her book again.

"Has she spoken to you about it? Emily," he pressed.

Of course, his concern was for Emily.

"When does she ever talk to me?" she replied with touch of bitterness in her words, "I've barely seen her all week."

Ferdinand said nothing. They both knew that Emily had never, not in all the years they'd been friends, been one to share her private thoughts. She'd always lacked a certain natural warmth and openness, and went through more than her fair share of periods where she was distant, which sometimes put pressure on her friendships.

It was particularly difficult for Helena, who always spoke her mind, to understand why her best friend refused to confide in her. And although Ferdinand had grown used to Emily's behaviour by now, and could understand it better having known her family before they died, he grew worried when such moods took her, closing her off behind layers of fortress-like steel. Her method of coping was usually to bury herself in her studies; it was a convenient way for a Ravenclaw to avoid having to talk to anyone without raising suspicion. So far this week, however, Emily had been completely neglecting her homework, another cause for concern.

She always came back to them in the end, Ferdinand reminded himself. Even in those long months after her family were killed, when he thought he'd lost her forever, she had eventually become something close to her old self again. And nothing, not even Snape, could ever be worse than that. Perhaps he was worrying unnecessarily. When they did see her, the fact that she was restless and irritable was reassuring.

"You don't think she'll do anything in Potions tomorrow, do you?"

Ferdinand sighed, but not because she'd interrupted his reading again. The next morning was the seventh-year's first double Potions class of term, and he was dreading it. Emily's behaviour of the past few days made it impossible to predict how she would be from one day to the next, let alone how she would treat the very Professor she was spending so much time trying to get fired.

"I've no idea what she's planning, but I certainly wouldn't put it past her to try something."

Silence followed, as they both contemplated the very worst that tomorrow might bring.

Then, as was her habit in uncomfortable situations, Helena said brightly, "Just make sure you sit on her right side."

"Why?"

"So you can grab her wand from her before she murders him."

Ferdinand smiled. There was nobody like Helena when it came to breaking the tension.

"Are you sure you don't want to come along? I'm sure if you asked Snape nicely-"

Helena had dropped Potions like a stone after OWLs. Not once had she regretted the decision, and she told him so now.

"But Slughorn was so disappointed," Ferdinand teased, "I think you broke his heart."

The old Potions Master had showered Helena with compliments in an effort to change her mind.

"Bollocks," she replied, curtly, "He barely noticed my existence in five whole years. He only said that stuff to boost his class numbers, so Potions wouldn't be in the Five Least Popular Classes list. You know how competitive the teachers are about stuff like that."

Ferdinand's smile became smug. "And once again, Flitwick tops the bill."

"Naturally."

They exchanged grins at the thought of their Head of House. Charms was easily the most popular subject, and Flitwick the most liked Professor. The only other contender who came close was Herbology and Professor Sprout. They had once seen a disgruntled Slughorn handing a happy Flitwick a few galleons once, muttering something about 'House bias' and 'unfair advantage'.

Some time later, Helena spoke up again.

"She'll be alright. Even if the petition fails-"

"Which it probably will."

"-she'll get over it."

"Are we talking about the same person? You know what she's like. I don't think she understands the concept of 'letting something go'."

Helena pondered the quiet determination of their friend.

"Personally I'm more worried about how much more like her uncle she gets every year."

"Don't let Emily hear you say that!" he hissed suddenly, as though worried the subject of their conversation might be listening in at that very moment, "Besides, he's not that bad."

"_He's sent people to prison without trial!" _she hissed back, "He authorised the uses of Unforgivables against suspects-"

"Against Death Eaters. Against people who _kill _people like you."

Ferdinand's expression was grim, and angry, but this had no effect on Helena.

"_Suspected _Death Eaters," she whispered back, calmly, "What if they suspected you, or Emily, or Barty? It's wrong. In the Muggle world, people would be out in the streets if the government tried that. And _wizards_ think _Muggles_ are uncivilised."

* * *

><p>While her friends studied in the library, Emily, constantly flitting between anger and anxious agitation, stalked the moonlit corridors, unable to sit still, and desperate to be alone.<p>

* * *

><p>Meanwhile in the dungeons, Severus nursed a headache with a glass of firewhisky. Teaching was more tiring than he'd expected, and he hadn't even had any marking to do yet. The other teachers were spending their evenings during the first week together in the staffroom, making the most of what would be one of the quietest weeks during term time. He'd heard talk of card games, games that didn't sound much like Exploding Snap, and seemed to involve the consumption of significant quantities of alcohol.<p>

He'd walked past the staffroom several times in the past week, and often heard voices from within. Once, after a meeting with Dumbledore, the Headmaster, who was on his way to the staffroom himself, tried to cajole Severus into joining them. For some reason, that alone removed any temptation he'd had to get involved.

So instead he stayed in his chambers, staring into the fire until his eyes hurt, watching the flames consume the wood, spitting and hissing at him.

In his mind he turned over the curious turn his life had taken. Never, not once, had he considered becoming a teacher. It still didn't feel real, or right. Dumbledore had said the other teachers would come around, but Severus wasn't even sure he wanted them to. The thought of them actually liking each other, of being _friends_ was laughable.

To his surprise, dealing with adolescents was easier than expected. His lessons so far could certainly have been a lot worse. Most of his pupils seemed to be completely terrified of him, so terrified that there was far greater danger of stupidity-related accidents rather than deliberate troublemaking. The gasps he elicited from them when he caught them staring at him were deeply satisfying.

He had tried to convince himself he liked it because it made his job easier, but there was no denying that there was something innately pleasing about being feared. It was the sort of reaction he'd always longed to elicit from his peers during his own schooldays, an endeavour that usually failed, especially when James Potter and Sirius Black turned up.

Stifling a yawn, he extinguished the fire and stood up. If there was any consolation to his new situation, it was that he was so tired by the end of each day that his brain rarely had the energy to dwell on that most painful of thoughts; his Lily.

* * *

><p>This must be what fraying felt like.<p>

As a child, Emily had had a favourite rag doll, with bright blue button eyes, straggly brown wool for hair, and a lopsided mouth. They'd found the old doll in a Muggle charity shop, and despite her mother's misgivings, the little girl had insisted that she could never love any other doll as much as this one. The doll spent the next few years in Emily's bedroom, drinking pretend tea with Mr and Mrs Bear and their numerous offspring, or having her hair plaited in just the way that Emily's hair was plaited, or dancing with her best friend Mr Francis, who would one day be her husband.

But the doll was old, and had already had several owners. The fabric around the shoulders was particularly threadbare, and every so often little bits of stuffing would start coming out. Her mother would try, with magic, to repair her each time, but it never lasted. She was simply old, her mother would say, and magic could only do so much. The doll could be remade, of course, in new fabric, but to Emily that seemed horrific. It was like telling an old person they could have a whole new skin, to get rid of their wrinkles.

It was the horrible inevitability of it that had had the greatest impression on the young girl. That no matter what she did, the doll would eventually fall apart. Even then, she could guess at the parallel in the human, living world. Magic didn't save her grandparents from old age and death; they had all, even her father, the man who could surely do anything, been helpless. And now, again, as her aunt's health continued to deteriorate, all they could do was watch.

That such a young child should think such morbid thoughts had never struck her as odd. Death was all around her, and fear of it was simply a part of life. But sudden death at the hands of a dark wizard was very different to the inevitable decline at the end of a life. In a way, the latter seemed worse. At least in battle, you could be a hero, you could take your enemy down with you, or you could die protecting those you love. Then at least your death could have a purpose.

Although Emily's body was young and her magic still strong, she felt as though she was fraying, coming apart at the seams. All week she'd struggled to keep a lid on her emotions, struggled to concentrate on her schoolwork, which was rapidly piling up. At night she would lay awake, afraid of falling asleep lest the nightmares should return. She ate little, making excuses and leaving the Great Hall before anyone else had finished. Somewhere inside her, she was aware of her friends' concern. But old habits are difficult to break, and it was her habit to retreat inside herself until it was safe to come out.

This intolerable situation couldn't last. Something had to give. And that something, whatever it was, would come today. Because today she would face him, in the dungeons classroom. How she was expected to deal with this impossible situation, she didn't know. So she floundered, trying to maintain control, grasping at whatever aid and advice she could think of.

_Be patient_. _Think before you act. _And above all, _do not let him win, again. _

And if he did remember her? The only explanation she could think of for why he hadn't already given some sign that he recognised her, was to think that this was all part of some scheme of his. A game he was playing with her, like a predator watching its prey from afar, allowing it to feel safe, before pouncing.

Breakfast was a quiet affair, at least for Emily. Her surroundings seemed to have taken on a hazy, surreal quality, as though she were still dreaming, or playing out someone's sick and twisted fantasy. Snape, the Death Eater, pretending to be a teacher, while his victim watched, helpless. It was wrong, all wrong. He shouldn't be here, he should be locked up in a cell in Azkaban, having his soul ripped from his body. Just like he tore life from Marcus'.

Charles Cato was waiting for them outside the dungeon classroom as she and Ferdinand approached. The only other students there were the two Slytherin prefects, Cyrus Sigal and Jemima Mockridge, standing a little apart from Cato. Neither noticed Emily and Ferdinand's arrival. Charles and Ferdinand chatted as they waited. Emily tried to take an interest in the conversation - something about a new statue being built in the Ministry of Magic, and the artist designing it - but her concentration was elsewhere.

They were soon joined by the remaining students in their NEWT class; Olwen Greenlaw, her red curls pulled up into a ponytail today, Mary Thetford, the returning student, and Barty, who slipped into view just as the door of the classroom opened and a voice beckoned them in.

* * *

><p>After taking the register, in which Emily swore his eyes lingered on her face just a fraction of a second longer than on the others, Snape spent the first twenty minutes of the lesson firing questions at them. His first victim was Barty, who had taken his usual seat next to her - Ferdinand sat with Charles - but he moved on once he realised Barty's knowledge of Potions was flawless. Mercifully, the question he demanded of Emily was one she actually knew the answer to, so, probably thinking she'd be as knowledgeable as her cousin, he moved on.<p>

The responses to his questions were mixed. It seemed to Emily at least that it was nerves, rather than ignorance, that was the main problem. Nobody knew what to make of him, this new Professor.

After that, he launched into an obviously prepared preamble about the dedication and diligence he expected from them, his NEWT class. It was when he said he would be judging them in the next few weeks, that Emily, already highly strung, could take no more.

There was a noise, somewhere between a tut and a gasp. In the stiff silence of the classroom, they all heard it, and from whom it came. Ferdinand pressed his eyes shut for a moment, cursing the girl at the next desk for her lack of control.

"Do you wish to share something, Miss Saxon?"

Emily suppressed a shudder as he said her name; he made it sound like a deadly weapon.

"I just thought it ironic, _sir, _that _you're _playing the part of judge, deciding which of us _deserve _to be here._"_

As one, the class tensed. Ferdinand twitched nervously. Emily Saxon didn't talk to teachers that way. She was always respectful, always polite. They waited with baited breath to see how the new teacher would react. Even Barty, who had been lounging in his chair, his arms folded and legs stuck out the other side of the desk, his face impassive, almost indifferent, seemed to go rigid.

Snape's eyes narrowed, and he swept between the rows of tables and stopped right in front of hers and Barty's desk, so that he could tower over her. He didn't need to be a master at reading people to notice the vein in her temple throbbing, and the tight way she gripped her arms, making her knuckles white.

What he couldn't see was the battle going on inside her mind. One half of her brain was screaming at her to shut up, to stop drawing attention to herself from the _Death Eater_, and that now was probably a good time to _run the Hell away, _while the other half egged her on, dared her to draw her wand, wanted him to die at her feet _right now. _

Hitching his best smirk onto his face, he sneered, "Ah yes, I forgot that you're Hogwarts resident Auror-in-Training. As well as, _apparently,_" he turned to catch the eyes of his other pupils, bringing them in on the joke, "our very own Wizengamot. How lucky we are, to have the wisdom of your judgement."

From the other end of the classroom, Mockridge sniggered. Emily threw a glare in her direction and saw Sigal grinning as well, then went back to glaring at Snape, who was clearly enjoying himself. He'd been talking about her with someone, Dumbledore perhaps? There was no way he'd _just know _about her ambitions to be an Auror. What else had they discussed, she wondered.

"A word of warning," he continued, even quieter this time. He placed a hand on her side of the desk and leaned closer. Emily fought the revulsion in her throat at his close proximity.

_I want you dead_ - she thought - _I want to place my hands around your throat and squeeze until your eyes bulge- _

"I've seen your Potions marks thus far, and they're far below what I would expect from a NEWT student, making your position in my class very," he paused, apparently for dramatic effect, "_precarious_."

_Or grab a Potions knife and shove it into your neck, get the jugular, before you even knew what was coming- _

Bile rose in her throat as much from the horror of her thoughts as from the nearness of her enemy. Frustration at the impossibility of her situation returned, and she swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat.

Snape was still talking, oblivious to the physical reaction he was inducing in his pupil.

"Professor Slughorn has obviously been too soft on you. But I'm afraid that, unlike him, I don't care who your _uncle_ is, your surname is irrelevant, and so unless you improve significantly, you can forget your Auror application."

"At least Professor Slughorn wasn't a murderer."

Someone gasped. It had come out as barely a whisper. The temperature in the dungeon dropped several degrees. Snape stared at her, apparently in shock at her daring, then he slowly straightened up.

"Ten points from Ravenclaw," he said silkily, turning away.

"What? What for?"

"Twenty points. For speaking out of turn."

She muttered something under her breath that sounded like '_ridiculous'_, and he rounded on her again, anger blazing in his cold, black eyes.

"This is a classroom, Miss Saxon, not the Ministry of Magic. If you wish to remain I suggest you leave your political concerns at the door."

"Actually I consider _murder_ to be more of a _moral_ issue-"

Her voice was stronger now, as she grew more sure of herself.

"And a philosopher as well! Is there no end to your talents?"

Nobody laughed this time.

Seven sets of eyes had watched the exchange with increasing horror. What had started as an - albeit surprising - spat between a teacher and an impudent student had become far bigger than that. The veil of authority surrounding Snape had slipped; he looked less like a teacher now and more like a man barely older than they were, a man who, until recently, had dropped to his knees and kissed the hem of the robes of the most feared Dark wizard for a generation. Who knew what unspeakable acts of cruelty he had committed for his master.

And Emily Saxon, who had encouraged so many to practice duelling again and again, who talked in the language of war and death and honour, reminding them all what Snape really was. Bringing him down off that pedestal he and Dumbledore had placed him on.

"You've just earned yourself detention," said Snape, and to many he sounded a little desperate, as though he too had noticed the change. "Here. Tonight. Eight o'clock. Be late and you'll no longer be studying Potions."

Then he turned to Barty and kicked his feet back under the table, hissing, "Sit up straight, boy!"

Turning away from the troublesome student, he set them all the task of brewing the first stages of the Blood-Replenishing Potion, a tricky, but extremely useful potion, which would mature over the course of the following week, and be completed next lesson. For the remainder of the class, Snape mostly stayed behind his desk while everybody quietly followed the instructions on the board. A few times, Ferdinand glanced in Emily's direction to see her jerkily chopping the Potion ingredients, her face puckered into a frustrated frown.

Needless to say, by the end of the lesson, her potion looked nothing like what it should, and Snape, inspecting it down his large nose with a smirk, vanished it and demanded that she brew it properly, as extra homework.

_He thinks he's won. Bastard._

As soon as the bell rang for lunch, Emily was the first to dart out of the classroom, and wasn't seen until Herbology class an hour later.

* * *

><p>Helena groaned when, over lunch, Ferdinand relayed the story of their first Potions lesson. He was angry; Prefects simply <em>weren't meant <em>to get detention. What sort of an example was she setting the younger students? This would probably encourage them all to misbehave in Snape's classes.

He didn't know how right he was. It would, in fact, become a clarion call to action.

"_At least Professor Slughorn wasn't a murderer." _

Months later, people would point to that one line, in that one lesson, that changed everything.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: Please leave a review :) I know some of you aren't so sure about Emily, and this chapter perhaps doesn't show her in her best light, but she is in a pretty difficult situation. <em>

_Oh yeah, and Helena's assertion that the Ministry's tactics wouldn't happen in the Muggle (British) world isn't quite accurate of course, particularly in the '80s, when this is set. But she's young, and may not know that.  
><em>


	6. A Fragile Trust

_Author's Note: I took this as a given, but just in case, perhaps I should say that the views expressed by the characters in this story do not necessarily reflect my own. _

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Six - A Fragile Trust<strong>

Emily stared at the pile of filthy cauldrons, from which a stench of burnt cabbage was coming, and her mind worked furiously to find the meaning behind them. Most of them were completely caked in something dark and foul. Next to them was placed a bucket of soapy water, and a rather pathetic looking sponge. The scene looked so… ordinary. _Too_ ordinary.

"When I come back I want to find these so clean the house elves could serve tomorrow's breakfast in them," Snape explained unnecessarily. "Without magic."

"Hence the bucket," she muttered.

"At last your Ravenclaw intelligence decides to show itself."

She looked at him in time to see him delight in his own joke, and just about managed to stop her eyes from rolling in response.

"So- that's it?"

Snape caught the suspicion, and hope, in her voice.

"What were you expecting, bodies?" he sneered, bitterly.

And then the catch came.

He held out his hand. "Your wand."

She blinked. He didn't seem to be joking.

Amongst adults in the wizarding world, taking someone's wand was just not done, but such rules didn't apply where underage wizards were concerned. Of course, Emily wasn't underage, but that wasn't why she didn't want to hand it over.

"I don't think so," she laughed. His eyes narrowed, dangerously, but his hand remained outstretched.

"I'm not surrendering my wand! I'm not an idiot!"

"I'm yet to be convinced," he growled through gritted teeth, and took a step closer. Inside her, a shard of pure fear trembled.

"Are you always this melodramatic? Surrendering indeed! This detention requires no use of magic, and since I have better things to do than to _supervise you_, I'll be confiscating your wand to make sure you follow your instructions."

It had taken her every ounce of resolve, every inch of courage to turn up for this detention in the first place. That, and a few puffs on one of Barty's 'special blend' cigarettes. And all because she couldn't face another night wondering how much he knew, and what game he was playing with her. Whatever happened, it had to end tonight.

But now she was starting to think she'd made a terrible mistake. Her eyes flicked briefly towards the door to the dungeon. It was shut. Her uncle's warning reappeared, unhelpfully. She was already alone with him, and now he expected her to willingly disarm herself!

Perhaps her thoughts were written all over her face, as comprehension was clearly dawning on him. A shadow passed over his face, the anger in his glare fading a little. His outstretched hand fell an inch or two, and then, with the smallest of sighs, dropped completely.

He seemed to consider his next words carefully.

"I announced in front of an entire class that you'd be serving detention tonight. Indeed, I spoke to the Headmaster about it earlier this evening. If I meant you harm, do you think I'd be stupid enough to do it now, when everybody knows you're down here?"

She didn't answer.

"And I suppose the Headmaster's trust in me means nothing to you."

"Perhaps he doesn't know you as well as he thinks he does."

"And I suppose you know me better, do you?"

"Maybe I do."

Emily shut her mouth forcibly and looked away. Blood rushed in her ears as she waited for his reaction. Why had she said that? Did she _want _him to realise what she knew?

_It's inevitable, and you know it _- an annoyingly superior voice inside her said - _that's why you're down here. Either he remembers on his own or you crack and blurt it out, because you can't possibly keep your mouth shut about this forever. But either way, you're going to have it out with him. _

Again, that feeling of being on the edge, that some tendon upon which she was precariously balanced was about to snap. Perhaps it was her sanity, she thought bitterly.

Snape was still watching her. Then, without a word, he turned and left the classroom, shutting the door behind him.

* * *

><p>Severus rifled through books and rolls of parchment, making notes, some copious, others brief and succinct. He'd been pondering his plans for his first year class since the beginning of the week, and had eventually decided to be daring and set a harder challenge for them than he'd originally planned. There was no point mollycoddling them, after all.<p>

He was starting to see why some people liked teaching. It could be satisfying, he imagined, to teach those that wanted to learn, those that actually _listened _to instructions, who shared your passion for the discipline. Of course, the reality of teaching was very different. Most of his students so far appeared to be either chronically lazy or imbeciles, or both, but he'd rather hoped his NEWT classes would be different.

Perhaps they would have been, if not for Emily Saxon.

He paused, his quill hovering over the ink bottle, thinking of that angry young witch. Every instinct told him there was more going on here than at first appeared. There'd been that moment in class, when she'd looked, well, _murderous_. That really was the only way to describe it. And tonight, when he was sure she'd been about to say something, when she'd almost let slip-

_Emily Saxon_.

After setting her to work on the cauldrons, he'd gone straight to the library to look up the Saxons in the Wizarding Geneology section. He was surprised to find little there. Apparently the Saxons weren't quite as well placed as he'd thought; they seemed to be forever on the fringes of power and influence, and much that was written about them was critical of their 'continued fraternisation with Muggles'.

That was no doubt why the Dark Lord had targeted them, although Severus had never heard his old master speak of them himself. Indeed, there seemed to be something of a tradition of Saxons dying suddenly and mysteriously, even before the rise of the Dark Lord. It appeared they had never been short of powerful enemies.

According to one political commentator, their status would wax and wane as their views went in and out of fashion. Since the death of the head of the family, however, their history was put on hold. Severus had even found one piece, written by that same commentator - who seemed to be something of an expert on the family - wondering in what direction the young Miss Emily Saxon would take her family's legacy, once she'd completed her education.

It wasn't unusual for the heirs of old families like the Saxons to have that kind of pressure on them. There'd once been a time when he had wished for such pressure, if it meant having that heritage, but these days he wasn't so sure it was worth it. There were a lot of things he wasn't sure of anymore.

He'd stared for some time at the names of her immediate family.

_Magnus Saxon, deceased (1929 - 1978)_

_Evelyn Saxon, deceased (1936 - 1978)_

_Marcus Saxon, deceased (1961 - 1978)_

The culprits were never caught, or even identified. There were no witnesses.

The clock on his mantelpiece chimed. It was getting late. Abandoning his work for the night, he left his chambers and went back to the classroom.

Emily Saxon didn't hear him enter the dungeon and for a second he watched her scrubbing the cauldrons with an alarming ferocity. She'd rolled up her sleeves, and he noticed with interest a wand holster strapped to her left forearm. Her hands were red and blotchy. Apparently Filch's cleaning potion didn't agree with her skin. It was probably unbearably itchy, and yet she hadn't once complained, nor had she used the dragon-hide gloves in the store cupboard, nor transfigured a pair of gloves, or indeed any magical method, of which he could think of plenty, to protect her skin. This girl was in Ravenclaw, was meant to be smart, and yet here she displayed an embarrassing lack of imagination and initiative.

Unable to resist the temptation, he shut the door loudly. As expected, she jumped and spun around on her toes, sponge abandoned, replaced - with a speed that impressed even him - by her wand.

She stared at him, wild-eyed, and stood up slowly, her wand still drawn and pointing straight at his chest. Water dripped from her free hand, but her attention was entirely on him.

"Sneaking up on me were you?" she asked, her face sinking into that familiar frown of intense dislike.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're paranoid?" he sneered, raising one eyebrow in his most sardonic manner, and folding his arms across his chest.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're an evil little bastard?"

"Watch your mouth!" he hissed, cutting her off and taking a step nearer. Her wand very nearly brushed his shoulder.

"Must I remind you that you're in _detention_, and speaking to a Professor in such an insolent manner is completely unacceptable!"

She scoffed, but before she could get a word out-

"I advise you to _lower your wand, _Miss Saxon, unless you want to spend _every_ evening in detention!"

This got her attention. She hesitated a moment, then lowered her arm, her eyes never leaving his face. But she didn't return her wand to its holster. She seemed to calm down as well; her eyes were no longer wild, but calculating as she watched him. Apparently without realising it, she scratched at the inflamed skin of her arms.

"I suppose using gloves from the store cupboard never occurred to you," he sneered again, enjoying mocking her.

At least she had the sense to blush, but it only made her angrier; her eyes narrowed and she gave him a look of such loathing that for a second he hesitated. There was a part of him that was warning him to back off, but another, stronger part that wanted to see how far he could push her. He inspected the cauldrons. There were still a few she had yet to clean, but most of them gleamed in the torchlight.

"I think the Sorting Hat may have made a mistake with you," he went on, picking up one cauldron and taking a closer look. "Your stubbornness, bordering on idiocy, would clearly be more at home in _Gryffindor_."

A glance told him she'd heard the way he snarled that last word, and taken it, as intended, as an insult. Ravenclaws were, like Slytherin, particularly proud of their reputations for cleverness; it wasn't for nothing that they were considered sister-Houses. Being called a Gryffindor was an offence she would not likely forget. His smirk broadened, and he bent down to run his finger over the insides of each cauldron she'd cleaned, hoping to find some deficiency.

"Tell me, are all your family as pig-headed as you?" he asked, pressing his advantage. "Whose side do you get it from, your mother's or your fa-"

He'd turned to enjoy her reaction, but before he could finish his sentence, a fist came flying at him out of nowhere, slamming into his face and knocking him off balance. He caught himself before he fell into the metal cauldrons, and turned sharply to see her take a step back, shaking her right hand. A sharp, needle-like pain shot up his nose. He hadn't expected _that_! She just glared at him, unabashed.

For a moment, shock at the attack rendered him speechless, then-

"_You punched me!_"

It sounded even stupider out loud than it had in his head.

"Don't you _ever _talk about my family, _Snape_!" she growled, flexing her fingers, in a way that reminded him forcefully of the Dark Lord, when he was trying to stop himself killing something. Or someone.

He stood up, not taking his eyes off her, and wiped the trickle of blood from his upper lip. There was a dangerous glint in her eye, of ice and steel.

"_What the hell is wrong with you?" _he hissed. The acute pain in his nose was making his eyes sting.

"Oh I'm sorry, _I'm_ the one with the problem! How could I forget? " she nearly shouted, bitterly and sarcastically, "I'll tell you what my problem is. _You're _my problem! You, here, at Hogwarts. Oh don't look at me like that, all innocent, like you don't know," - his confusion was clearly evident on his face - "Or have you really forgotten? I suppose they all just blend into one in the end, do they? Are they so insignificant to you that you _don't even bother to remember their names_? How many lives have you taken, _Severus? _How many more have you ruined?"

She took a deep breath after her rant, but it seemed to him like there was more to come.

It was then that he noticed she wasn't holding her wand; she'd _had the foresight _to return it to its holster before punching him. The situation was more serious than he'd thought. She was _literally_ insane, and violent, and-

If he could just get her wand-

Their eyes met, and the look on her face told him her thoughts mirrored his.

Neither moved.

A second later, her Shield Charm blocked his attack, and the next, and the next. She was quick enough to defend herself but not fast enough to do that _and_ send anything back. In the confined space of the classroom, the constant barrage was driving her backwards, and as he advanced on her, her defences grew weaker and weaker. At last one got through, and her wand flew from her hand and landed several feet away on the floor.

He straightened his arm, his wand pointing right at her heart. It was only then, as he got his breath back, that he saw how hard she was trying to keep her face composed. The emotion struggling to burst through her defences could only be described as pure terror.

With his wand tip he forced her face upwards, and their eyes locked.

"_Legilimens_."

_A corridor…. a girl, disappearing… a boy, duelling… falling… his face, eyes glazed… a shadow across his body… a figure in black… a mask pulled away… himself… _

Severus stumbled backwards as the spell broke. It took a second for him to get his bearings; the floor seemed to swim beneath him, and the flickering shadows around the room cast by the torches didn't help.

Before the full implications of what he'd seen could sink in, she crashed into him and they tumbled to the floor. Her fist connected with his face again, then found his neck, and squeezed. Seconds later, he forced her onto her back, pinning her down with his body. She tried to fight him off, but he was too heavy, and too strong, and he quickly had her arms and legs trapped beneath his own, and was pressing his forearm into her neck, choking her.

As suddenly as it had started, it was over. The girl's accidental magic threw him across the room, and he slammed hard into the wall. For nearly a minute, they both lay there, panting and coughing.

_The boy had had a sister._

Severus wiped his nose - it was bleeding heavier now - and waited and watched for signs of movement.

When she did move, it was to cover her face with her hands, then she rolled onto her side, her back to him, and curled into a ball. From where he sat he heard the stilted breathing, saw the shaking shoulders, and realised she was crying.

He watched with dismay as she pulled herself into an even smaller space, clutching her head, pulling at her hair. And then she let out a noise that stabbed at him, a quiet moan, anguished and painful.

He saw himself in Dumbledore's office, wanting to die, wanting to join Lily. He felt the pain of her loss all over again, and it tore at him. Guilt, stronger that he'd ever felt before, made him feel sick. Suddenly it was more real than ever, they were all real. All his victims, every one, lined up, their faces scratched onto his mind like painful scars that would never heal. He'd tried so hard to forget, tried to put them from his mind, tried to pretend none of it had happened, or that someone else was to blame.

But it was a lie. It was his fault. He'd done this, to them. And to her.

"_How many lives have you taken, Severus? How many more have you ruined?" _

The image of the girl who lay crying on his dungeon floor would haunt him until his final hour.

* * *

><p>She missed them. She missed them so much it hurt.<p>

Her dearest brother, her best friend, who'd run around the garden with her on his back when they played Knights and Dragons, or tickle her until she could hardly breath. Her mother, her guide and teacher, who'd taught her to read, and nursed her when she was sick. Her father, her champion, who held her whenever she was scared or upset, and made silly puppets out of socks, and gave them even sillier voices, to cheer her up.

She _needed_ them. She would do _anything_ for them, for one more day with them.

How could anything hurt this much, after so long? Would it never lessen?

* * *

><p>The floor was cold and hard beneath her, and she suddenly remembered where she was. Raising herself a few inches, the dungeon swam into view behind her tears, mostly in shadow, lit only by two torches burning low upon the walls. Why did she have to cry now? She could have cried at <em>any other time<em>, when she _wasn't_ in the same room as _that man!_

Wiping her face on her sleeve, she sat up, and then she saw him. He was still there, sitting cross legged on the floor, watching her. Even in the half-light she could see his eyes, slightly bloodshot, with a silent deadness haunting them. If he hadn't been sitting upright, he might have been a corpse.

She started a little when he moved, reaching out towards her across the floor, a plain white handkerchief in his hand. She noticed the bruise already forming on one of his cheekbones, and a few flecks of dried blood around his nose. Taking the handkerchief without saying anything, she cleaned herself up properly, all the while scratching at her itching skin.

"I'll get you something for that," he croaked suddenly, moving to stand up.

"No! I'm fine, I don't want your help!"

Her anger had returned, mingled with bitterness at her outburst of emotion in front of the very man she hated so much. And if he thought he could just walk away and avoid facing this, he was wrong. The brief look of discomfort on his face as he sat back down told her that was exactly what he'd been hoping to do.

Silence fell again between them.

"So what happens now?" she asked at last.

"Well, we could carry on until one of us is dead and the other is in Azkaban, or we could- not." His voice was dull and lifeless, just like his eyes.

"What, you want a truce?" she scoffed, rubbing at her neck, which was still a little sore.

"Don't get me wrong," he snarled, matching her sarcasm, "as much as I enjoyed our little _tussle_, if we continue down that path, neither of us will win. Personally I'd rather not spend the rest of my life incarcerated, nor my last days of freedom constantly looking over my shoulder."

"What makes you so sure _you'd _be the one killing _me_? It sounds like this truce would benefit you a lot more; you have more reason to trust me than I do you."

One of Snape's eyebrows shot up. "You just tried to strangle me. And before that, you attacked me completely unprovoked."

"_Unprovoked? _You murdered my brother! How much more provocation do I need?"

He winced at the venom in her voice.

"I have more reason to hate you that anyone," she continued, her voice rising as her anger regained momentum, "And yet, I have to call you _Sir _and _Professor_, and show you _respect_! Do you have any idea how galling that is? How much it sickens me to see you every day, walking around, free and alive, while my family's _dead_, and without justice. And I can't touch a hair on your head, because you're _protected!"_

"That hasn't stopped you from trying," replied Snape, angrily - though why _he _should be angry, she didn't know.

"Is that all you have to say?"

"_What do you want me to say?" _he hissed, "I can't change the past, I can't take it back! It's over, the war's over."

"Oh that's right!" she spat, bitterly, "And we're all meant to go back to our ordinary lives, back to normality. Except I don't have an ordinary life! _This is my life_! Everything I've done since they died, everything I am, has been about the war, has been about _you!_ Why do you think I want to become an Auror? Why do you think I taught myself to duel? Why do you think it is, that every night before I go to bed I run through the list of spells I'd need to remember if I was attacked again? That I ward my bed, _even in my own home!"_

She paused to draw breath. Now that the flood gates were open, it all came gushing out. "It's all been about you," she went on, barely more than a whisper now. Sadness and grief had come to dominate and quash her anger. "_You did this to me!" _

She needed them. She needed her family to make things right, to put her back to how she was before they died. To take away the anger and the hatred and the pain.

Tears threatened to flow again, so she stood up and went to get her wand, not taking her eyes off him, but hoping he wouldn't notice the way they shone. She would _not _cry again, she would _not_ give him that satisfaction.

Snape was still watching her, no longer looking angry. He hadn't reacted at all as she ranted, had stared at a space to her left, unwilling to meet her eyes, but now he seemed to physically force himself to look at her. His expression was almost unreadable, but the way the corners of his mouth turned down slightly, and the crease between his eyebrows, was enough to tell her he took no pleasure in this conversation.

He didn't move from where he sat, hunched over, like a wounded spider. He looked like he might never speak again.

"You know, I used to dream about tracking you down one day," she continued at last, once she'd composed herself, "I didn't know how I would, I only knew your face. And now here you are, at Hogwarts, the one place I still felt safe. It wasn't enough for you to take my family and my home. My security. You had to come and take Hogwarts from me as well."

"I haven't," he whispered, his voice hoarse, "I didn't know you were here. I didn't know who you were. But I hadn't forgotten- I do remember your- brother?"

She nodded, and then, after a moment's hesitation, sat as well, cross legged, as though she were a child about to listen to a story. Such a thought left a bitter taste in her mouth.

He went on.

"I never knew his name, but I recognised him, even then. He was in the year below me. He was the first person I- that I killed. I'd only just been accepted into the Dark Lord's circle. Only just received the Mark."

He tried, and failed, to suppress a shudder.

"The year below? But that means-" she gasped and stared at him open mouthed. "Were you still at school? Did you come back here after it happened, after the Easter holidays?"

Their eyes met, and Snape visibly flinched at the look of disgust on her face.

"_Yes." _

She felt sick. They would have been at school together. They would have both been on the Hogwarts Express, perhaps only a few carriages apart, just days after he'd killed Marcus. On the first evening back, Dumbledore had told the rest of school what had happened, made a little speech about how much Marcus would be missed. It was the hardest assembly she'd ever sat through. Even now she could remember everyone's eyes, full of pity, on her.

As if guessing what she was thinking, Snape said hurriedly, "I didn't really- I knew one student hadn't- was no longer- but I'd become a recluse by then. I didn't really spend much time outside the dungeons, except for classes. I didn't talk to anyone. I didn't want to know his name, so I deliberately avoided situations where I might overhear someone talking about him."

Emily didn't know if she wanted him to go on or not. She didn't talk to anyone about Marcus these days; everyone avoided it because it was such a sensitive subject for her. Hearing someone, even Snape, talk about him must be what it was like to drink a glass of cool water after days of wandering through a hot, parched desert; needed, but agonisingly painful.

Somewhere in amongst her own despair a single, uncomfortable thought emerged; _he'd_ struggled.

_So he should - _she retorted angrily. But nevertheless, it was an interesting thought, that he had. It seemed to contradict everything she thought and felt and knew about him.

They went back to their silence. Emily couldn't bear to look at him, now knowing how she would react if she did, but she could feel his eyes always on her.

"I haven't come to- to _finish you off_," he whispered at last, sarcasm slipping into his words, "I meant what I said earlier, about a truce. It's the only way-"

"I don't trust you-" she insisted.

"I don't expect you to!" he said, leaning forward slightly, "But surely you can see that it just isn't in my interest to harm you. If I went back on my word, we'd both lose. If something were to happen to you, I'd be immediately suspected, regardless of whether or not I was actually involved. Not even Dumbledore could protect me. In fact, if he thought I was guilty, he'd be the one leading the charge against me."

Snape paused, then said, "And as for _you_ killing _me_, I'm actually not sure you're capable of murder, despite your attempt tonight. It isn't easy, and it does something to you-"

He trailed off.

"Well, you're the expert."

Snape's eyes seemed to darken even further.

His words seemed to make sense, but she was still uneasy. She also hadn't missed how this truce only seemed to apply while she was at Hogwarts. But what choice did she have? If she refused, there was a slight chance she'd be able to kill him without being caught, but how likely was that? She'd been preparing for a battlefield, where the normal rules could be bent, where enemies were enemies, and could be despatched without question, not where her enemy was protected by the very law she wished to uphold, where _she'd _be the criminal.

Her only contact with Dementors came floating to the surface of her mind, and the cold, clammy feeling made her shiver. Risking Azkaban just didn't seem worth it. And then there was what Snape had said, about murder "doing something" to the murderer. What did he mean by that?

Essentially it came down to trusting that he was a rational human being, who also didn't think Azkaban was worth it. It was a fragile trust.

"Alright," she said at last, "A truce."

He held out his hand for her to shake. "No killing."

"And no Memory Charms," she added, grasping his hand quickly before letting go. The memory was so old, and had by now extended into so many other parts of her mind, removing it would certainly leave her permanently brain damaged. There'd once been a time when she'd considered the possibility herself.

They both sat back. Emily couldn't help it, a tiny flame of hope had been lit inside her. All week she'd lamented the fact that she no longer felt safe at Hogwarts, her precious Hogwarts, and that Snape had ruined it. If anything could cast the tiniest beam of light at that darkness-

After a moment's silence, Snape spoke again.

"Does anyone else know? Have you told anyone?"

She didn't reply straight away. Of course he wanted to know, no doubt he'd soon be bartering for her silence as well. Anything to save his precious skin. Before she could answer, he asked again.

"Have you told Dumbledore?"

She stared at him. "_Obviously not_, otherwise you wouldn't be here!"

"Is that what you think?" he said with a slight sneer. He gave her one of his superior looks, and went on, "By all means, go and tell him then. But don't be surprised when he doesn't let the small matter of your _feelings_ get in the way of his plans."

"This isn't about my feelings!" she replied indignantly, "It's about justice, for Marcus! Anyway, what plans?"

Snape didn't answer at first, but looked down at his hands and started picking at his nails. When he did, he spoke slowly and carefully, as though he wasn't sure how much he should say.

"Dumbledore has his reasons for bringing me here. I'm useful to him. And I'm afraid that's more important than any notion of justice. Or do you still believe we live in a just society?"

Before she could think of a reply, he glanced up at her, a look of curiosity in his eyes, then murmured, "How could someone with such naïve idealism survive with the Crouches for so long, without having it crushed out of them?"

The anger in the pit of her stomach rekindled again at his patronising tone. He surely didn't still think of himself as her superior; they were practically the same age, if anything they were peers.

That thought pleased her even less, and she gave him another dirty look, rebuilding the barriers between them, breaking any hint of a connection that had started to form there.

He was a Death Eater. And that was unforgivable. She may have many flaws, but she would never, _ever_, take an innocent life.

Bristling with irritation, she mimicked his sneer, "I know the Ministry's riddled with corruption, and for your information, my uncle hates it. But Dumbledore's not like that, Dumbledore-"

She paused, unsure. Would it make a difference if Dumbledore knew? Perhaps he already knew, had already guessed from her behaviour. The Headmaster's words came back to her, the last time they'd spoken; _"I believe your parents also taught you to be merciful, and the value of giving someone a second chance."_ Was this why he hadn't made her Head Girl? Had he known she would react this way?

But it would be _wrong_ to let Snape get away with murder, even worse to give him a job and a home here! Had they still been at war, she might have understood, but what possible use could he be to Dumbledore now, that would justify letting him off? It wasn't as if Potions teachers were that difficult to come by.

And with a sinking feeling, she realised she already knew that Snape was right. Why else would Dumbledore be willing to forget Snape's past crimes, which he must at least suspect, if not in the pursuit of some higher goal? If Snape was indeed useful to the Headmaster, her feelings, as Snape put it, would have to come second. One individual was simply less important than the ultimate aim; victory over the Dark Side.

Not to mention the fact that there was more of a danger Snape would turn back to the Dark Side, than that she would. In the game of war, she, too young to have ever been in the Order, was but a lowly pawn compared to him, the spy.

This was what made her a little uneasy about trusting Dumbledore completely, she realised. While the Headmaster's heart was doubtless in the right place, could he always be trusted to consider the impact his actions had on the individual, especially one he didn't consider important enough? Was that how he saw everyone, in terms of their 'usefulness'? It was the sort of trait she'd expect from a Slytherin, from You Know Who, not from the champion of the Light.

So that was it? Her brother didn't deserve justice because he wasn't _important _enough? And apparently she was meant to just accept this! And accept _him _as her teacher!

Snape was still watching her, resting his elbows on his knees. Up close she could see the lines already forming on his young face, and a deep cynicism clouding his black eyes.

"Well maybe someone else will be interested to know what you're really like," she said, scratching again at her arms, "My uncle. The press. The rest of the school. I'm sure Professor McGonagall would be particularly interested. You know she was in the Order of the Phoenix herself."

Snape's eyes had briefly widened at her list. She could make his life very difficult indeed. In fact, she could ruin any chance he had to start again, anew; his position at Hogwarts could become untenable, and then he may never get to see Lily's son.

Struggling to get back in control, he said with an appearance of nonchalance that didn't convince her, "If you were going to do that, surely you'd have already done it. What are you waiting for?"

She looked away. Nothing. She wasn't waiting for anything, she just didn't like everyone knowing her private business. But she wasn't about to tell him that.

"I haven't decided yet," she replied, hoping too to sound casual.

All of a sudden, her disquiet at being near him returned full force. She was sick of the sight of him, and was exhausted to boot. The silence between them suddenly felt awkward, and she realised he too wanted her gone. Snape caught the glance she threw at the remaining cauldrons, then directed his wand in their direction and said, _"Scourgify." _They rattled, the metal ringing against the stone floor, then fell silent.

Snape stood, and arched his back slightly. "When you do decide, I'd appreciate it if you'd come and speak to me first. At least let me defend myself before you destroy me." The bitterness was there again.

He watched her stand as well, then fixed her with a stern look that, for the first time, made him seem something close to a teacher.

"Wait here," he said curtly, "I'll get a salve for your hands."

And with that he turned on his heel and left the classroom. As soon as she heard his office door shut as well, she slipped out of the classroom and hurried out of the dungeons. When he returned to the classroom, glass jar in hand, she was gone.

* * *

><p>Sitting in Slughorn's old chair - for that was still how he saw it - Severus opened the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out the opened bottle of firewhisky. He went to pour himself a drink, but then, abandoning the glass, he drank from the bottle instead.<p>

The evening hadn't quite gone according to plan. He'd intended to have a 'chat' with the girl, but about _her_ conduct not _his._ He'd thought an evening of cleaning cauldrons, and in so doing recognising his authority, would make her more obedient, more willing to listen. Instead it had made her even angrier.

He'd been going to get her to apologise, to accept that spreading vicious and unfounded rumours could ruin people. He hadn't considered the possibility that _she knew _they were true.

He gripped the desk to stop his hands from shaking. The same hands that were responsible for their deaths.

_How many lives have you taken, Severus? _

The image of Emily Saxon's face swam in front of him, merging with that of her brother's, then with Lily's. Pressing his eyes shut, a tear leaked out and rolled down his cheek. Suddenly, unable to prevent it any longer, he buried his face in his hands and wept tears of grief, and of self-loathing.

Some time later, he staggered back to his chambers and collapsed in a drunken stupor on the sofa.

* * *

><p>When Helena pulled the curtains of her four-poster aside the next morning, she wasn't surprised to see Emily's bed empty. Today was a Saturday, and most students slept in late, but her friend was hardly 'most students'. She <em>was<em> surprised, however, to turn and see Emily sitting in the window seat, already dressed, staring out over the grounds. The Ravenclaw Quidditch Team were out practicing for their upcoming game against Hufflepuff. The only other girl they shared a dorm with, Adriana, could just about be seen, hovering near the goalposts.

"Morning," Helena said, already wondering what sort of mood Emily would be in.

Her friend turned, and Helena stifled her gasp. In the bright morning sunshine, she looked awful. Dark rings circled her eyes, which were red and slightly bloodshot, and her face looked thinner, her skin paler than usual. It looked like she'd been kept in some dark room and half-starved.

But then she smiled, and years seemed to lift from her face. Helena relaxed.

"I'm sorry," said Emily quietly, "I know I've been a bit of a nightmare the past few days. Honestly, I don't know why you put up with me."

Helena smiled, sadly, lifted up Emily's legs, sat down next to her, and returned her friend's legs so that they covered her own.

"Do you remember Regulus Black, the one who used to call me Mudblood all the time?"

Emily nodded. Black had been in the year below Marcus, and was part of a group of Slytherins that had always given Helena and other Muggleborn students a hard time.

"Every time him and his friends turned up, you would always stand by me, and shout stuff back at them, even though you were just as scared as I was, and they were twice our size. And then one day you turned to me, with that fierce look in your eye, and said that they were just _wrong_, that being Muggleborn was nothing to be ashamed of, that I was better and smarter and funnier than all of them."

"And you knew I needed to hear it, you knew that, even though I was bolshy, and pretended I didn't care what they called me, you knew that deep down I had my doubts. You knew just the right thing to say, because you're my best friend. So we stick together, even through the hard times. _Especially_ through the hard times."

Emily looked like she was about to cry, so Helena asked jokingly, "Did you even go to bed last night?"

Her friend grinned.

"Seriously, I didn't even hear you come in, and I didn't go to bed till about midnight?"

Her smile suddenly became fixed, then she turned to look outside again.

"Was it that bad?"

"He just had me cleaning cauldrons, that's all."

For a minute they both watched Adriana shouting at one of her team mates.

"You don't have to do this on your own, you know," said Helena, quietly, "We're on your side."

"Even Ferdinand?"

"Of course he is. He just-"

"I know," Emily replied, finally turning to look at her, "I do understand, and I don't blame him. I'm actually glad I'm not Head Girl."

Helena's jaw dropped in mock horror.

"Too much," Emily stated seriously, then suddenly broke into laughter. She'd never had Helena's gift for keeping a straight face.

"Really? Damn. I thought I got it just right."

Her eyes widened in genuine horror when Emily raised a hand to stifle a yawn. The skin halfway up her forearms was red and blotchy, and littered with scratch marks.

"Em, your-" she gasped, then, "Did _he_ do this?"

Emily didn't reply, and her expression had taken that all-too-familiar stony look.

"I think you should tell someone," said Helena, all seriousness, "McGonagall. She'll listen."

Emily turned to gaze outside once more, a slight frown creasing her forehead.

"I'm really hungry," she told the window, "I'll meet you down in the Great Hall."

She stood up and started looking for her shoes.

"Well, wait five minutes and I'll come down with you," said Helena, already suspecting her friend was about to skip another meal.

"No," Emily replied, just as her stomach gave a loud rumble, "I need to think anyway."

And with a brief flash of a smile that was clearly meant to reassure her friend, Emily disappeared out the door.

* * *

><p>"-to represent all beings in magical Britain, united, and working together for the common good."<p>

"Sounds brilliant!"

"I thought you'd like it, it seems just your sort of thing."

Emily and Charles were eating breakfast in the Great Hall, and Charles was telling her about the new statue that was planned for the Ministry of Magic, that his father had apparently been instrumental in arranging.

Helena hadn't arrived yet, and Ferdinand had appeared only briefly, looking stressed and asking if anyone had seen Olwen, before disappearing to go and look for her elsewhere. Being a Saturday morning, the atmosphere was pleasantly jovial, and it was having an effect on Emily. Her plate was piled high with food. She'd noticed too, that Snape was absent this morning.

This was what Hogwarts should be like, she thought.

After leaving the dungeons the night before, Emily had wandered the corridors for some time before returning to Ravenclaw Tower, after midnight. Over and over again, she relayed her conversation with Snape. She hadn't intended on telling him all those things, hadn't meant to bare her soul like that, but once she'd started, she found she couldn't stop. Some of the things she'd said were things she hadn't even articulated to herself until that moment, let alone anyone else. But every word was true, of that she was certain.

Sometime during the early hours of the morning, she'd come to several decisions. She'd honour the truce, but couldn't assume that _he _was going to, at least for now. And so, her caution continued. If he really wanted to win her trust he was going to have to try a _lot_ harder.

She'd also decided that the truce didn't - and shouldn't - stop her from continuing the campaign against him. The petition would go ahead as planned - it was surely nearly ready now. Whatever it took, and whatever Snape did to save himself, Marcus would have his justice, and Hogwarts would be free of its new, undeserving occupant.

Her justification for her uncharacteristic neglect of her schoolwork - not to mention her meals and sleeping - had been the belief that the Snape Situation wouldn't - couldn't - last. But that had been proven false, and so in order to be successful, she simply had to take greater care of herself. That was why, when Helena arrived, she saw her friend eating a hearty breakfast, and talking about spending the day in the library.

"What about, you know-" she asked, glancing at the Head Table.

Emily followed her gaze and saw McGonagall talking to Sprout.

The long walk down to the Hall had given her ample time to think over Helena's suggestion. She turned back to her friend and smiled.

"After breakfast."

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: Please leave a review!<em>


	7. Lines In The Sand

**Chapter Seven - Lines In The Sand**

"Did you explain to Professor Snape that you needed gloves?"

"He didn't listen. He said he had better things to do."

McGonagall bristled.

"Why didn't you seek Madam Pomfrey's assistance last night?"

"It was late by the time I left the dungeons, I didn't want to wake her."

"Heavens, child, what on earth do you think she's here for? It's her job to treat such injuries, at any hour!"

Silence.

"_How _late was it when Professor Snape released you?"

"Around midnight. Helena was asleep when I got back, and she said she went to bed that sort of time."

Emily swore she saw smoke coming out of McGonagall's flared nostrils.

* * *

><p>Poppy Pomfrey inspected the girl's hands and arms. Such a reaction wasn't unheard of, and was easily dealt with. What concerned her more was the rest of the girl's appearance.<p>

"Have you been having trouble sleeping?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

The girl nodded. "Just this past week."

Poppy and Minerva exchanged dark, significant looks. Apparently this was enough for the Transfiguration Professor, who muttered something like '_Albus must listen' _before marching out.

Now that they were alone, Poppy led the girl into her office, where she sat her down and made her a cup of sweet tea. As she gently rubbed a cooling salve into the girl's skin, she asked her the next, important question. "I thought the nightmares had stopped?"

Emily Saxon's expression grew morose. Poppy knew she wasn't one who found talking easy; she'd had a difficult time getting her to tell her what was wrong the last time. But they had eventually built up some trust, enough for her to tell her about the nightmares she was having, and how frightened she was of being attacked again. She'd cried then, while Poppy held her and rubbed circles into her back to soothe her.

"They had," Emily murmured, "I hardly ever had them. It's only recently-"

She didn't need to explain what had brought on this latest regression. Enough had passed between them for Poppy to understand without further explanation, and less was often more where Emily Saxon was concerned.

Over the years, Poppy had helped many a student deal with grief and fear, especially during the recent troubles. It was always a long and difficult process, requiring work on all sides, and all her gentle patience to set them back on the right track. And now all their progress was in danger of being ruined, by one man. Emily Saxon wasn't the first pupil she'd had in here since the new Professor had arrived, and doubtless she wouldn't be the last.

Poppy was only frustrated that Emily hadn't come to see her sooner, but it was just like her to put on a strong front while storms raged below the surface. Once Poppy had worked out that this attitude was the truth at the core of Emily Saxon's being, her behaviour made sense. That was why she bottled things up, that was why she rushed around trying to keep busy, taking charge, and that was why she spoke to no one about her feelings.

Exactly why Emily was like this, Poppy hadn't been able to work out. Perhaps it had something to do with being a Saxon, or related to the Crouches, or perhaps it was simply a reaction to the attack that killed her family. Either way, it made her a tricky patient to deal with.

"It isn't just that," Emily said after a few minutes silence, staring into her now half- empty mug, her free hand clenched tightly around it, "My aunt isn't well. I don't like being away from her, in case-"

Poppy easily filled in the blanks.

_In case something happens to her while you're away. _

As if the difficult memories dug up by Severus Snape's presence wasn't bad enough, on top of what was going to be the most gruelling year of her education, she also had her aunt to worry about.

"But I'm sure your uncle is taking good care of her," she said, trying to reassure her.

Emily looked up, and Poppy saw something besides sadness in her eyes, something hard.

"He isn't-" she began uncertainly, then plunged on, "He isn't the most reliable person, when it comes to things like this. He's great at his job, but family stuff-"

She stopped suddenly. Her description of her uncle didn't exactly fit the Dedicated Family Man often portrayed in the media. Poppy considered reminding her that everything she said would be kept between only them, but before she could, Emily drained her cup, and set it on the table. The matron knew the sign; she'd done enough talking.

While Poppy poured a few nights' worth of Sleeping Draught and some more salve to be applied in the evening, Emily suddenly blurted out, "Do you trust him? Professor Snape. Has he _really_ changed?"

Poppy looked at Emily and saw desperate hope in her eyes, and knew the answer the young witch wanted to hear.

"I don't know him well enough myself," she said carefully and honestly.

She remembered the few times she's treated him when he was a student, most memorably during his fifth year, after his encounter with Remus Lupin one full moon. Even now she could hear him shouting at Dumbledore and McGonagall, incensed, and calling Remus all manner of hateful things. While she'd treated him for shock as was required, she'd had little sympathy for him then. Remus, that poor boy who, despite, or perhaps because, of his monstrous condition was the kindest, most sweet-natured soul she could remember meeting. Who made the best of the difficult lot he'd been given in life without complaint. Who'd be full of remorse at the thought that he'd very nearly killed Severus Snape. Who only wanted to learn and be treated like everyone else, and whose education was now threatened by that same boy.

She pushed those thoughts aside. She'd only seen one side of that situation, and was naturally biased by the fact that she'd come to know and care for young Remus by then. Concerned that her thoughts were visible in her expression, she said firmly, "But I trust Professor Dumbledore's judgement. He knows Professor Snape better than any of us, and he's no fool."

"That's what everyone says," the young witch muttered, dissatisfied.

* * *

><p>Severus stormed down the deserted corridor, an enraged scowl darkening his face. That girl had a nerve!<p>

He'd just had to endure a lecturefrom McGonagall about _'excessive punishments', _and '_how we do things at Hogwarts'_. He hadn't missed the implication of her words; it wasn't just his methods that were unacceptable, but by extension so was he, and if he wanted to be part of Hogwarts, he'd have to _learn _to comply with '_Hogwarts' standards'!_

Dumbledore's amused remark that he was sure the rest of the staff would be happy to talk to him about punishments, not to mention teaching methods, if only he asked, didn't go down well. The glare Severus shot the Headmaster in that moment may have shocked someone watching - indeed, it seemed to shock McGonagall, who eyed him warily - but Dumbledore was decidedly unimpressed.

Learn indeed! You didn't need to pass an exam to know how to give someone detention! And the task he'd set would've been fine, if that Saxon girl hadn't been so stubborn. But _then _to have the gall to _lie_ about what had happened, and get _him _into trouble with McGonagall! He didn't know who he was more infuriated with, McGonagall, for her patronising, 'I-always-knew-you-were-no-good-and-now-you've-proved-me-right' attitude, or the girl, for being behind all of this.

Couldn't they see she was manipulating the situation for her own vindictive ends? But oh no, butter wouldn't melt in her mouth.

'_Oh she's lying, is she? I'll have you know that I've seen her arms for myself! She's being treated in the Hospital Wing right now! Or are you suggesting she injured herself deliberately?'_

Even Dumbledore had seemed sceptical about Severus' accusations, and yet was willing to overlook his 'lapse in judgement'.

"This is his first week, after all, Minerva," he'd said, "Everyone makes mistakes."

"It wasn't my fault!" Severus insisted, aware of how childish he sounded, and even angrier as a result.

"Do I have your assurance, Severus, that this won't happen again?"

There was something so infuriating about being unfairly blamed, and the injustice of it really got under his skin, that for a moment he'd been tempted to say 'No!' out of spite, but managed to stop himself. The "_Of course_," that followed came out through gritted teeth, but was sincere; he'd allowed himself to be backed into a position where he was perceived to be blameworthy, something he _should_ have been able to prevent.

If only he could've explained _why _the Saxon girl had it in for him. If only he hadn't been so hung-over after drinking the night before, he could've found the girl and sorted this out _before _she got a chance to talk to anyone.

If only. Those two words were turning out to be the story of his life.

The suddenness with which those dark regrets sprang to mind disturbed him, and he stopped walking and pressed his eyes shut for a moment. Thankfully, it was a fine day, probably the last they'd have till spring, and the halls of Hogwarts were empty.

Pushing memories of Lily down into the deepest recesses of his mind, he focused on what he was going to do about Emily Saxon.

The first thought his Slytherin mind touched upon was to do the very last thing she expected; talk to Dumbledore himself. Tell him everything. If anyone could control her, Dumbledore could. But would he? Dumbledore had never asked exactly what Severus' role had been in the Dark Lord's plans, what crimes he'd committed before his loyalties changed, and Severus had never volunteered such information. He'd always assumed Dumbledore didn't want to know, for the sake of plausible deniability if nothing else. But how would he react if he knew the truth?

What if it changed everything? Would his love for Lily still save him in light of this new information? Dumbledore's word was all that stood between him and a cell in Azkaban, and Severus just didn't know the Headmaster well enough to be able to second guess his reaction. No, it was too risky. In this matter, he could rely only on his own wits.

As he descended yet another flight of stairs, passing a group of first years who huddled together and gave him a wide berth, Severus considered the options he had left.

He needed her silence. Everything depended upon it. Now that he was here, the prospect of having to leave was unbearable. Where would he go? Who would employ him? No. _He _wasn't going anywhere, and so _she _had to be silenced.

Their brief, uncomfortable handshake came back to him, their _truce_. His lip curled at the thought. If Emily Saxon thought she'd won something from him, that a mere handshake would make everything alright, that it somehow protected her, she was wrong. She no doubt thought she knew him, because of what he'd done, and simply assumed that murder was all he was capable of.

Little did she know that murder had never been his style. Even when he'd been a loyal Death Eater, he'd rarely killed his victims. His methods were far more subtle, and therefore more effective. Coercion. Blackmail. Manipulation. And magic, _new_ spells of his own design that gave him an advantage over his enemies. Creativity he'd learnt to harness in the School of Slytherin.

Perhaps this was divine justice, he thought; being subjected to some of the very same methods he'd used against his own enemies. But she was a fool if she thought she could beat him at his own game, that this hold she currently had over him would last, that he wouldn't find a way to counter it, to turn the tables on _her_. And then?

Severus Snape never forgot those who wronged him.

_You think _**you've**_ been wronged? - _the voice sounded just like Lily's - _You killed her brother, and got away with it. More than that, you're now her teacher! How do you think she feels?_

His bitterness at the injustice he'd been subjected to mere moments ago flashed in his mind. That was nothing compared to the injustice she was having to put up with. An injustice that, if Dumbledore knew, would put the Headmaster in an impossible situation; defend Severus and deny Marcus Saxon justice, or break the promise he made to Severus and hand him to the Aurors.

It certainly put his own grievance into perspective.

Could he really blame her for twisting the truth about her detention? It was a wonder she hadn't come after him and smothered him while he slept, or slipped a dagger between his ribs. He still didn't understand _why _she hadn't told anyone, not even her uncle…

With the usual course of justice seemingly unavailable to her, she was scrabbling around with what few resources she had, using any method to somehow get at him. That in itself was a concern. A wild animal backed into a corner is a vicious and dangerous opponent, and people were often no different. The last thing he needed was for her to feel desperate enough to do something drastic and reckless.

He'd have to talk to her, to try and get her to see reason, and if possible to _win_ her silence. To do that, she needed to believe he wasn't a threat to her, she needed to feel safe, perhaps to even _trust_ him-

That might be pushing it.

_Are you really no danger to her?_

The thought came unbidden, this time in a voice that sounded a lot like the Dark Lord's. But he was ready. He'd spent nearly a year ruminating over these doubts, considering them from every angle, trying to justify his past actions, or at least demonstrate to himself that he wasn't the monster everyone thought he was. That Dumbledore thought he was.

"_You disgust me."_

Sometimes he was able to convince himself that joining the Dark Lord had just been a mistake made in a moment of madness, and his subsequent desertion was the true reflection of his character, rather than the other way around. But the doubts kept returning.

And then his thoughts would, inevitably, turn to Lily. She was the shining light in his dark life, the only good thing he'd ever known. And because of him, she was dead. Because he'd been such an _imbecile_ in believing that the Dark Lord's plans were what he wanted too. And even more foolish to believe the Dark Lord actually cared about his Death Eaters, that if one of them came to him and asked him to spare the life of someone they cared for, that he would actually listen and grant them their wish.

He came to a halt again, this time in front of his office door, and rested his forehead against the cold wood. How could he have been such an _idiot_? To be taken in by such a man, a true monster, with such empty, heartless ambitions. To make such a colossal mistake, to throw away his whole life when it had barely begun! He pushed his head, still pounding from the hangover, against the door, and sighed.

Dumbledore wanted him to make amends for the things he'd done, but how could anything make up for the murder of an innocent boy?

_You could start by apologising. _

* * *

><p>The mass of silvery mist swirled beneath Albus' wand. A figure emerged, of a young witch with her wand ready, in the stance of someone about to duel, a look of grim determination on her face. He stared at her, wondering-<p>

"How can you be so sure about him Albus?" Minerva asked from her straight-backed chair.

Albus looked up, and hesitated. It wasn't the first time Minerva had asked that question, and he'd like nothing more than to answer it, feeling certain the truth about Severus would allay her concerns. But he'd made a promise, a promise that seemed to matter a great deal to his young friend.

Severus Snape. He was another mystery. The intensity of his feelings for Lily had surprised Albus, and he couldn't help but wonder what other secrets the man held beneath those cool, exterior layers.

"I ask only that you give him a chance, Minerva. I'm certain he'll prove himself in time."

With a sigh he picked up a thick roll of parchment that lay on his desk. The petition. A group of older students had delivered it earlier that day, and Albus had promised to consider it. He took no pleasure in lying, but it couldn't be helped; no amount of signatures on a bit of parchment would persuade him to let Severus go.

He had perused its contents briefly, of course; it was worth knowing exactly who opposed his decision. He hadn't bothered to look for Emily Saxon's name, but had been somewhat disappointed to see the signatures of Ferdinand Ravenhill and Olwen Greenlaw there. So much for his choices for Head Boy and Girl; he'd expected better from them.

"You don't believe his story about Miss Saxon, do you?"

"I've never known Emily to lie to a teacher before now, but-" he paused, "Perhaps she's picked up a few things from her uncle. Forgotten the lessons her parents instilled in her. And who knows what anger and grief will make someone do-"

He trailed off, lost in thought.

Realising that her old friend had lapsed into one of his deep reveries, from which he wouldn't emerge for an hour or so, Minerva stood and left. Albus didn't even hear the door shutting behind her.

* * *

><p>From between two towering bookshelves in the quietest section of the library, Emily Saxon, her hands and arms stained orange from Madam Pomfrey's salve, watched the three boys walk away with looks of such suspicious innocence on their faces that she almost sighed with exasperation. How was it that they got away with all their troublemaking?<p>

Just then, the tallest of them glanced back at her and winked charmingly.

That was how.

She'd been knee deep in Transfiguration books when they'd slipped her a note, which read simply,

'_History, Row H-M. Operation Removal-Of-A-Nasty-Potion-Stain. Require assistance.'_

They were waiting for her when she ambled over to the History section under the pretence of looking for an obscure Magical Theory text.

What followed was an experience Emily had never had, and likely wouldn't ever again. After casting a simple spell to deter eavesdroppers, and sending one of their number to keep an eye out for trouble, they proceeded to detail at length their next rule-breaking scheme.

_Schemes_ would probably be more accurate.

"We'll start on Monday," the tallest one - was his name Bates? - had whispered before she could react, "We've got him first lesson."

"We're gonna start small," his friend chipped in, "Build up to the big stuff."

And then they pulled from their many, and apparently deep, pockets item after item, too quick for her to see exactly what each one was, but every one wrapped in brightly coloured packaging with the word '_Zonkos' _emblazoned across them.

Why hadn't she thought of this?

_You're a prefect. Your mind just doesn't work that way. Far too serious. _

The last time Emily had pulled a prank on anyone was when she was nine years old, and that had been mainly Marcus' idea.

"Why are you telling me this?" she'd whispered, "I'm a prefect-"

"But a prefect who wants him gone just as much as we do," Bates' grin had slid from his face, and he now looked deadly serious.

Then suddenly she remembered a fourth boy, quieter, more sensible than his friends, who _should've_ been planning this with them. He'd been killed the summer before the war ended, along with his family, because his mother was muggleborn.

A shared silent understanding passed between them, and Emily's jaw set with quiet resolve.

"We need somewhere to hide these. And the last place anyone'll think to look-"

"-Is in a prefect's trunk," she finished for them.

That was how Emily Saxon the prefect found herself colluding with the biggest Hogwarts prankmasters since Potter and Black.

Later, when she was sure Helena and Adriana weren't about to walk in to their dorm, Emily emptied her trunk and waved her wand over it, repeating the spell her father had taught her. The trunk had been in her father's family for generations, and had once, according to the stories, been made especially for one of her ancestor's by an old Greek warlock. It held a secret compartment, not unlike many hand-made trunks, but its uniqueness came from the fact that the designer had died along with its secret, having only revealed it to its new owner.

Emily placed the packages inside. Next to them she added a scroll of parchment, sealed with an obscure bit of magic that was used in matters of inheritance. The parchment would reveal its contents only to its recipient, Albus Dumbledore, and only in the event of her death. In it, she'd finally committed to parchment the biggest secret she'd ever kept.

It had taken her so long to write that by the time she finished, she knew the first few lines by heart.

'_Forgive me for keeping this from you while I was alive. I only hope my silence hasn't cost the lives of other innocents. _

_You asked me what had happened the night my family died. I told you I hadn't seen anything. That was a lie.'_

And at the end, almost as an afterthought,

'_He knows. And he knows that I know. He swore not to kill me. Only you know if he kept that promise.'_

At last satisfied that the layers of protective and concealment charms held her secrets securely, Emily filled her trunk once more, and left. It felt as though she'd left a part of her behind, but it was a part that protected her, that kept her safe from Snape's clutches. She needed this, she told herself, at least until she felt sure that Snape would keep his word.

_Probably forever then._

It wasn't ideal. Although the parchment was impervious to most destructive forces, her charms were breakable, to someone with determination, intelligence, and enough uninterrupted time. Someone not unlike Snape. But it was the best she could do at such short notice, and perhaps if she made copies, and hid them in different places-

No. That was probably unnecessary, not to mention risky. Only one of them would have to be discovered, after all-

* * *

><p>Severus pinched the bridge of his nose. Mondays. He could see he was going to <em>hate<em> Mondays.

It had started with just one of them; a tall boy with a winning smile and long dark hair that fell into his eyes. Last week it had taken all of ten seconds for Severus to realise he _hated_ this boy, and his instincts were spot on. Twenty minutes into the lesson, the boy started hiccupping, and every attempt to stop them - sipping from a bottle of water, then holding his breath, his cheeks puffed out - failed. From behind his desk, Severus watched with mounting irritation as the boy and his friends sniggered, only worsening his affliction.

It wasn't long before another joined in, and then another, until almost half the class was hiccupping at various intervals, and various pitches, like some bizarre - and strangely harmonious - ensemble. By this time the boy who'd started it had tears of laughter rolling down his cheeks and was struggling to keep his Potions knife steady. At any moment his hand would slip and slice open a finger. Not that Severus cared, but McGonagall's reaction loomed large and menacing in his mind, and that alone forced him to intervene. And not a moment too soon.

From then on, the lesson rapidly descended into chaos. Spilt potions spread across the floor, burning through shoes and table legs. An unfortunate student actually vomited from his convulsions, a development that was _universally_ disliked by the rest of the room. Regaining order over the unruly class was a struggle, made worse by the fact that half of them were still hiccupping, and even more were rolling around in hysterics. Over the noise, nobody heard his commands, nor his incantations as he vanished all the Potions, along with the various bodily fluids.

"_ENOUGH!"_

Calm - _relative_ calm - fell immediately. The laughing stopped, and all faces turned to look at him.

"_Everyone," _he growled through gritted teeth, his bedraggled hair and wide, glaring eyes giving him the look of a dangerous madman, "_Sit. Down."_

They complied, silent except for the continued, but quieter, hiccupping. Somewhere amongst the class he heard a whispered, _"Oh, fuck_."

The fear pulsating through the air like thick smog stifled any laugh that dared escape their lips. Nevertheless he scanned the room, watching for anyone stupid enough to try. The looks of trepidation and fear slowly creeping into their expressions brought a glimmer of confidence back to him, calming him.

A further twenty minutes later and he had the culprits, finally silent, each holding a sticky yellow sweet in one hand, and their shiny wrapper in the other. Hiccupping Sweets were a Zonko's classic, and the bane of many a disciplinarian.

Severus Snape had just been added to that list.

When at long last the bell rang for lunch, his now rather subdued class hurriedly exited, leaving him alone in the echoing chamber. He took a moment to sit before facing the rest of the school. The story would soon spread, and even now he could imagine their sniggers and whispers behind cupped hands. It was like being a teenager again; constantly followed by their looks of judgement, disdain, and worst of all, _humour_.

_Fuck them! _- he thought suddenly. _Fuck them all!_

Let them laugh and sneer, he didn't give a shit what they thought of him! He had no desire whatsoever to be well-liked, such _vanity_ had always disgusted him. It was the sort of pathetic shallowness exhibited by the likes of James Bloody Potter and his friends. He, Severus Snape, was above that.

As for his pupils, he didn't need their approval, only their obedience, and that was well within his capabilities to secure. Dumbledore had spoken of Severus coming to decide what sort of teacher he wanted to be, and the young Potions Master was starting to see exactly that.

His confidence regained, Severus left the dungeon.

Upon reaching the Entrance Hall, he saw Emily Saxon standing at the top of the marble staircase, surveying the scene below, as chattering students made their way into the Great Hall. For a second he thought he saw her glance at the boy with the Hiccupping Sweets, who was still nearby, obviously regaling his friends with his tale of the Potions lesson , before her eyes met Severus'. In that instance her expression changed, as a flicker of emotion broke across her calm, masterful gaze, like a stone breaking the still, glassy surface of a lake.

He'd been trying to catch her alone all weekend, but his efforts were constantly thwarted. Several times when following her through the labyrinthine corridors, she seemed to vanish into thin air, making him wonder if she was, in fact, in possession of an Invisibility Cloak.

He stepped forward to intercept her before she disappeared into the Great Hall, but there was a bunch of first years in his way, and before he could get near her she'd slipped amongst some students and became one head among many bobbing away ahead of him.

* * *

><p>"<em>Alohamora."<em>

To Emily's astonishment, it worked. Pushing the door open, she hesitated on the threshold, scanning the room with her lit wand, before taking one last look down the dark, empty corridor and stepping inside.

Nothing happened.

No swinging axes, no enchanted ropes flying up to bind her, no poisonous gases. Really, what was Snape thinking, leaving his office so unprotected?

She closed the door and set one of the torches on the wall alight, to better take in her surroundings. The room didn't look that different to how it had in Slughorn's day. The large wooden desk and chair were exactly the same, as was the potions supply cupboard in the corner. The shelves were, however, surprisingly bare. Whereas Slughorn had adorned his entire office with signed photographs of various famous people, or cards from former members of the Slug Club, not to mention various Slytherin trophies, Snape had precious few books, and a single jar, in which a pickled deformed rodent was serenely floating.

Resisting the strong temptation to read the spines of his books, and her morbid curiosity about the pickled creature, she turned her attention to his desk. It wouldn't take him long to realise someone had broken into his office; for all she knew he was already on his way. While she waited, she glanced at the rolls of parchment littered across his desk, but they were only student essays.

There was also little of interest in the first two desk drawers she tried. The bottom drawer, however, was different. It was bare but for an opened bottle of firewhisky. She didn't know what to make of that. It was then that she noticed that the store cupboard door was slightly ajar. Its insides were unremarkable, save for a series of thin drawers that looked newer than the rest of the cupboard; the wood from which they were made was paler.

She pulled a few of the drawers open to find rows upon rows of thin glass vials. She reached for one at random.

A tiny label on its side read '_Veritaserum.'_ Some of the others had scrawled across them words she'd never seen before, or were simply illegible in Snape's spidery handwriting. One drawer, she quickly realised, was devoted entirely to antidotes; some for poisons, but also mind-altering potions, most of which caused obsession or love. A few small black stones accompanied them.

A noise brought her sharply back to the present, so she hurriedly closed the cupboard, then sat in Snape's chair to wait.

A shadow appeared in the gap between the door and the floor. The handle of the door turned and the door swung open. Snape was standing there, alert, wand outstretched, looking strange in a nightshirt, dressing gown and slippers.

* * *

><p>She looked perfectly calm, sitting in his chair, her arms folded. The anger that'd been building in Severus' gut as he hurried down the corridor faltered a little when he saw her. <em>Of course<em> it was her. He should've guessed, but he hadn't. The sight of her, in total control of the situation, the complete opposite of when they'd last spoken, unnerved him. This wasn't a break-in, this was a planned - though he'd had no knowledge of it - meeting, perfectly staged to make him feel uncomfortable. Well, she'd done it very well.

Pulling his dressing gown tighter around him, he stepped inside and closed the door, shutting the world out. They were alone.

"Please," he drawled sarcastically, "make yourself at home."

She didn't react immediately, then, "Had a good day of lessons?"

Severus almost growled, his teeth grinding, but before he could respond, she stood, vacating his chair, and walked around the desk towards him.

"You've been following me," she stated, accusingly.

"You've been avoiding me. And very successfully too. How-"

"I know this castle pretty well by now. I know how to disappear."

His suspicions were right, he was sure. An Invisibility Cloak, or some other method perhaps- How had she hidden from him on the night her family was killed? A potion, wasn't it?

"But I'm here now," she added.

"I see. And breaking into a Professor's office in the middle of the night for a _chat_ is how you usually meet with your teachers, is it?"

"Only my favourites."

"I'm honoured."

Her sarcasm didn't lighten the black mood Severus was in. He _did not like _being woken during the night. It was hard enough for him to get an undisturbed night of sleep without the current thorn in his side breaking into his office, setting off his wards. Why, if she wanted to talk to him, had she spent the whole weekend avoiding him, only to turn up in this fashion, at this hour, instead of during daylight hours like _normal_ people?

He knew why. She did it to _piss him off! _Well, she'd succeeded there.

Scowling, he walked past her to the desk and retrieved the bottle of firewhisky he'd been nursing from the bottom drawer, before sitting in his chair and pouring himself a drink. With Emily's eyes on him, he conjured a second glass and poured her one too. Pushing it towards her, he muttered, "There's no reason why we can't be civilised."

She let a bark of laughter. "Oh the _irony_!"

Nevertheless, she sat too, but didn't touch the glass. While he drank, she talked.

"I came to tell you that I've secured a way for Dumbledore to find out about what you did, should something happen to me. You don't need to worry," she added, seeing his expression, "My method is secure, and well hidden. There's no danger of someone coming across it, and even if they did they wouldn't know what it was. Only Dumbledore would be able to, and only if I was dead."

"And if something happens to you that isn't my doing?" he asked, gripping his glass tightly, not eased by her words, "Remembering that in a few years time you'll be fighting Dark wizards for a living-"

She gave him an even look that told him the possibility had occurred to her as well, but hadn't bothered her in the slightest. Why should it? What did it matter that he'd changed, that he could never return to the Dark Side? The future was irrelevant for her, the girl who lived in the past.

"Anything else?" he asked sarcastically.

"Yes."

She didn't say anything for a moment, but ran her thumb over a knick that'd been made on the edge of the desk, as though she had all the time in the world. It gave him time to smooth the edge off his temper, remembering how he needed her on side. At last, she spoke.

"There were others there that night. Other Death Eaters. Who were they?"

Severus considered the question. The image of the one who'd introduced him to the Dark Lord in the first place came to mind, and he instinctively raised the walls around his mind, just in case she _was_ a Legilimens. Some of the others he remembered too, if he thought about it carefully. She was still waiting for his answer, a look of hunger and anticipation in her eyes.

"I can't give you that information."

Her expression changed instantly, and her mouth twisted unpleasantly, "I should've known you'd want to protect your _friends_!"

"I'm protecting you! What would you do if I gave you their names?"

"That depends. If they're already in Azkaban I suppose I _might_ leave them alone."

"And if they're not?"

She'd go after them, and they both knew it.

"You'd get yourself killed, or arrested," he went on, leaning forward to press home his point. Then he caught sight of the look on her face, and grew quieter. "Or perhaps that's what you want, to die in their name. Perhaps you wish you'd died with them all those years ago-"

"Don't be ridiculous!" she exclaimed, but it didn't convince him. He'd heard of Survivor's Guilt many years ago, and seen it a few times, even amongst Death Eaters.

"There's no honour in being a martyr," he whispered, "No glory in war. I can't imagine it's what your parents would've wanted-"

"_Don't speak of them!_" she spat, standing up suddenly, her hands on his desk. The furious glare she was giving him descended into quiet loathing, but was no less intense.

"Is this why you didn't testify against your old friends in the Wizengamot?"

He tensed. "If you must know, my information led to the capture of _several _Death Eaters, but I didn't appear in the Wizengamot because, funnily enough, the evidence of a _turncoat _counts for very little!"

"How convenient for you," she sneered, turning to leave.

* * *

><p>Typical. How she could've been so foolish to hope for answers from him, she didn't know. Turncoat. Untrustworthy, devious, selfish, turncoat.<p>

"I owe you an apology."

It came out as barely a whisper. She got the sudden and distinct impression the words cost him a lot to utter, but she didn't turn around to face him.

"About Marcus-"

"_Don't_ speak his name!" she hissed, emotion, so close to the surface this evening, flooding her chest.

Snape fell silent. Then, just as she was pushing her grief back down,

"He fought bravely."

"If you think saying that makes an _ounce_ of difference-" she said angrily, spinning around to face him. He had that hollow, dead look in his eyes again.

"Of course it doesn't. _Nothing_ I say or do will change anything. But I've been told to try."

"Told?" then she answered for him, "Dumbledore."

She half turned away and murmured hollowly, "But courage wasn't enough-"

"No," he said, standing and walking towards her, "He was cornered, and outnumbered. And fighting Dark magic with light is-" he paused, "difficult. Stunned enemies can easily be revived. Dead enemies can't."

"What are you saying?" she asked, looking back up at him. He was standing just a few feet away now, watching her with his dark, piercing eyes.

"There wasn't anything more any of you could've done. Only the Order could've saved them at that point. And certainly not a thirteen-year-old girl-"

She dropped her gaze, the wind knocked out of her. How did he know? Was she that much of an open book?

"If you hadn't hidden, you would've died as well, have no doubt about that. At least-" he hesitated, until she met his eyes again, "At least _you _survived. At least they died protecting _something_. Something- someone _worth_ dying for."

It took her a moment to collect herself, then she whispered through teeth gritted against the shaking that threatened her voice, "If those responsible are still free, I have a right to know-"

"What difference would it make? Don't you understand? If they've managed to convince the Wizengamot that they're innocent, they're protected by the very law you wish to uphold! You can't win against them!"

Emily turned away. She knew it was true, had known it for a while now, but didn't want to believe it. She hated this feeling of powerlessness!

At last she said, "My father. His- his body was never found. What happened to him?"

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: Incidentally, Emily doesn't have an Invisibility Cloak. I thought about it for a while, but decided that Barty Crouch Senior would keep his cloak for himself. <em>


End file.
